


Tales of the Third Age in Twilight

by Susana Rosa (SusanaR)



Series: Desperate Hours Alternative Universe (DH AU) D version [5]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Brotherhood, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship, Romance, Spanking, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 36,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/Susana%20Rosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories set in the late Third Age. Most will be centered around Aragorn, Arwen, Denethor, Finduilas, Boromir, or Faramir.</p><p>New Chapter Summary: Every mother’s dearest wish is that her child will be lucky enough to live a fulfilling, happy life. Against impossible odds, Gilraen’s son did.  In that way, she was a fortunate woman, and her story was one of ultimate victory, and not a tragedy at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lovers' Quarrel

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Title: Lovers' Quarrel
> 
> Chapter Summary: Arwen made a mistake, but so did Aragorn. And the twins help to prevent another mistake, by telling Aragorn a fable of an Arwen whom they all hope will never have to be. (Or, this really doesn't start as a girl-power story, but it definitely gets there, in it's own strange fashion).
> 
> A/N: Set after Aragorn's day as Thorongil in Gondor have ended, and after he has traveled 'where the stars are strange.' Set during his time as Strider, so he is certainly over 60, and probably more like 70 or almost 80. Arwen, of course, is about 2,800 years old. Arwen's cousin by marriage Minaethiel is mentioned in this story, please note that she is one of Kaylee and Emma's OCs, not mine. Thanks again to Kaylee and Emma for the loan!
> 
> "The female of the species is more deadly than the male." - From "The Female of  
> the Species," by Rudyard Kipling

"Ouch!" Arwen yelped, wriggling helplessly at the sharp swats landed unfaltering on her bottom. "Is so much enthusiasm really...OWWW...NECESSARY?!!"

Aragorn didn't pause. In fact, he just tilted his beloved further over his knee, revealing the still-pale undercurve of her bottom, and beginning to direct his firm smacks to the white flesh, rapidly turning it a bright pink. "You know it is," He told his betrothed, regret mixed with lingering worry and affection in his voice, "You know enough of a soldier's trade to know not to go rushing into an engagement like that! Eru, I could have LOST YOU!" At that last, Aragorn smacked his hand down especially firmly on the tender undercurve of Arwen's bottom.

Arwen Undomiel yelped indignantly, arching her back and wriggling fiercely enough to escape, if her beloved's hold on her had been any less an iron grip, his muscular arm around her slender waist. "I...thought that...YOU...were...in danger!" Arwen complained, scissoring her legs, and then yelling, "Aaah!" as that only seemed to expose new spots for the attention of Aragorn's hard hand.

"I was the bait!" Aragorn snapped back, continuing to smack his future wife's reddening backside. "Halbarad, Elegos, and I are the fastest runners, that's why! The rest of the force was waiting, ready to intercede when the Enemy was over-committed! The twins were with you, and they knew not to come rushing into our AMBUSH!"

"I KNOW!" Arwen yelped, "I KNOW, I MADE A MISTAKE! It's been a long time since I was a soldier! That doesn't mean I have a hide of iron!" As Aragorn's hand continued it's relentless assault, alternating between either cheek, undercurve, and then spending extra time on her sit spots, Arwen burst into tears, "You're...being...." Arwen couldn't think of any polite words strong enough to adequately convey how unimpressed she was with her future husband at this moment, so she used a very bad word. Several of them, actually.

Almost growling in male frustration, Aragorn retorted, "Just because I worship you, does not mean that I'm willing to let you make a mistake like that with no consequence! If you're going to join us in battle, EVER AGAIN, you will be MUCH MORE CAREFUL." Each word was enforced with a stinging smack to Arwen's already flaming bottom.

Arwen gave up arguing, and just sobbed. For a few moments she didn't even realize that her ordeal was over, then she was cuddled oh-so-carefully in her love's arms, and his gentle hand was wiping her tears away.

"I'll start....practicing...regularly, again." Arwen offered, hiccuping, "And listening more closely, when Glorfindel, Halbarad, Elegos, Ethiron, you and the twins talk strategy."

Aragorn leaned his forehead against hers, grateful, so grateful, to still have her, "Arwen, I don't care whether you're more careful, or whether you just don't fight again. I know you have been a warrior, and a good one, in the past. But you know I'd prefer that your sword stays hung up."

Arwen pinched him, and it was Aragorn's turn to yelp, and then Arwen's again, as Aragorn smacked her throbbing bottom gently.

"Quiet, meleth." Aragorn half-pleaded, "I'm trying to explain how I'm feeling, and I'm not eloquent."

"Well," Arwen retorted, "You're not above saying that you're not, to lower expectations. But go ahead. I'm listening." She was entirely too well-spanked not to be a somewhat obedient future wife, at least in this exact moment. Although Aragorn might well be sleeping in her brothers' room at the inn tonight. Arwen still hadn't decided yet.

Aragorn cupped Arwen's luminous face gently in his hand, and told her quietly, "You are my faith. Without you, I...don't think I could continue. So, keep that in mind. Whatever you decide."

Eyes widening, Arwen leaned forward, her lips meeting his. When they parted, breathless with hope and tears and relief, she told him, "That's too much, meleth. Too much to ask of me."

He smiled back, bittersweet, he who had never been given a choice, in having too much asked of him. Arwen's heart went out to him, again, and she promised, "As long as you live, I will stay out of the conflict, unless my sword may make a difference."

It wasn't the promise Aragorn would have wanted. It wasn't the result Arwen would have wanted, either, even starting out from her weak, and rather rosy-bottomed, position.

Seeing the amusement in one another's eyes, Arwen, who really was the more eloquent of the two of them on most days, murmured softly, "Compromise and laughter are the soul of a good marriage, or so I'm told." Her cousin-by-marriage Minaethiel had said that once, and her father Elrond had agreed, more recently. When he stopped hating the idea of her and Aragorn together. Sighing deeply, Arwen added, "I suppose this is one of our first compromises, meleth-nin."

Aragorn laughed softly, "Oh, so I'm not 'an orc fornicating with his own progenitors in a cesspit,' anymore, as I was but ten minutes ago?"

Chuckling, and putting a hand back to gingerly rub her still burning bottom, Arwen apologized, "No, you are my own dear love. Even if you have a hand of iron." Arwen refused to make the comparison between the spanking she'd just gotten from her future husband, and the many she'd received as a younger elleth from her father and brothers. She was not going to think of that.

Stroking her hair, Aragorn comforted, "I don't blame you. I gave you a thorough enough lessoning to merit some cursing. I actually called Adar that once, while he was strapping me, one of the first times he'd used a strap on me. I didn't know what it meant, which is the only thing that saved me from an even more memorable bottom-warming. As it was, Elrohir got in a lot of trouble."

Arwen huffed a laugh, because she'd first learned those words from Elrohir, too. Then she caught her betrothed's wrist in a firm but not cruel grip, stopping Aragorn's hand before it could join her own in trying to soothe the fire he'd lit on her bottom, not fifteen minutes ago.

"No." Arwen said firmly, "Or at least not yet. You go take a walk, or something. I may...may, welcome you back in an hour or so. But not yet."

With that, Arwen got up off of his lap, carefully toeing off her leggings. Standing in just her tunic, she shook her head at her future husband's pout. "No, meleth. I do not dispute your right, as the leader of the men whose ambush I nearly ruined, or as my future husband, to have called me to account in such a fashion this night. But I will be your wife, not your dog, and I need some time to myself, just now."

Aragorn sighed, pain fighting with desire and lingering relief in his eyes, "I don't want you out of my sight." He argued.

"Tough." Arwen Undomiel replied, pointing to the door, as she ordered, "Out."

Aragorn crossed his arms, still sitting on the room's narrow bed, then stood up, arms going to his sides, and tried another tactic, "You look incredibly desirable with a bright red bottom. And I want to kiss it better. Let me stay, and give you comfort. Please."

"Out." Arwen repeated, "You can come back in an hour. If I'm feeling better, I'll let you share this poor excuse for a bed with me, and, of course, its native inhabitants." Arwen wasn't fond of fleas, but this time in the spring, sleeping outside they were just as likely to be bitten by insects, or even rained on.

Aragorn sighed, and obediently headed for the door, saying in parting, "I'm glad that you're not a fragile elleth. Even if you gave me the greatest fright of my life this night."

Arwen huffed, amused again despite herself, "You're glad I'm less of a female than Elladan and Melpomaen, who would complain more than I do about meeting you in towns too small to have a decent inn, or even in swamps, or wherever you are."

Grinning, and hoping for a reprieve, Aragorn complained, "Aye, they DO complain more." It was true enough, anyway.

"Out. Back in an hour." Arwen repeated, but her eyes held more of a smile, and Aragorn felt better about his chances in an hour.

Walking towards the inn's small common room, Aragorn was more than a little surprised to note a dark shape approaching stealthily behind him, but he immediately whirled to engage it.

As he did that, a second, unseen shadow tackled him, and he found himself over Elrohir's shoulder, as the older twin crowed, "'Dan, muindor-laes saw you!"

"I know," Elladan agreed with mixed pride and insult, "He's growing up."

Aragorn groaned, "I'm nearly four times my majority, you ..." Aragorn used the phrase Arwen had used earlier, to describe both twins, annoyed by Elrohir's carrying him into the stable, as if Aragorn himself was a bale of hay, or a sack of potatoes, rather than the Chieftain of the Dunedain of Arnor.

Elrohir chuckled, "Tut, tut, muindor-laes. What did Ada say he'd do if he heard you say that again?" Elrohir tipped Aragorn down, but used his own body to hold his young human foster-brother in a bent-over position that was glumly familiar for Aragorn.

"No!" He protested vociferously, "I didn't do anything wrong! Arwen deserved to be smacked, and we all agreed that it was my place!"

"This isn't about Arwen," Elladan reproved, as he yanked Aragorn's trousers down.

"This is about baby brothers who didn't listen to their fellow rangers, about it being a bad idea for the Dunedain's one-and-only heir of Isildur to play bait, even if he is such a very fast runner." Elrohir added, as Elladan lifted Aragorn's tunic, baring the heir of Isildur's bottom to the cool night air.

"Elegos talks too cursedly much." Aragorn complained grumpily.

"Hmm, Halbarad said much the same." Elladan noted with a half-sympathetic, half-reproving grin, "But he was good enough to gather you a birch at the same time he made his own. I'll warm you up first, so it won't hurt as much."

"Oh, thank you." Aragorn said dryly, bracing himself for Elladan's firm hand, which wasn't long in landing on his bottom. Soon enough, the heat in Aragorn's bottom was such that he'd stopped noticing the chill of the air. Not much after that, he felt a birch rest lightly, in warning, on his already sore bottom. He knew it was going to sting like a swarm of bees.

"Two dozen, muindor-laes." Elladan warned him, before flicking the birch to land the first of the relatively mild strokes. Aragorn yelped, because it was just his brothers and the horses, and none of them would think less of him. And because the birch stung exactly as much as he'd feared it would.

Yelping and wriggling at least as much as Arwen had over his lap, just a little while ago, Aragorn endured his birching. By the time he'd counted the tenth stroke, Aragorn was quite grateful for Elrohir's firmly but gently holding him in place. When the last stroke fell, the twins gave their young foster-brother a moment, then helped him to right his clothing, and pulled him into a three-way embrace.

"We have to tell Adar." Elladan informed him.

"But we'll tell him that we took care of it." Elrohir assured him, with a gentle kiss to Aragorn's brow.

Sniffling manfully, Aragorn asked, "About me, or about Arwen rushing the count?"

The twins both winced, "We vote for not telling Ada, about Arwen." They said, at the same time.

Aragorn stared. Such a united front was rare, from his twin foster-brothers.

"We don't want to worry him. Ada's family has this...history, with stupidly locking up their beloved daughters, despite said daughters being powerful and dangerous ladies in their own right." Elladan explained.

"Plus, lock Arwen up and keep her out of things, and she's liable to do something..." Elrohir paused, as if searching for words to adequately convey how bad of an idea he thought that would be.

Elladan reminded Aragorn, "It is important that you remember, muindor-laes, that Arwen was named Undomiel not just for her beauty, but for..."

Elrohir contributed, "for a certain aura of power about her. It's not just you that Arwen reminded of Luthien Tinuviel. Daernana Galadriel says that there's a resemblance, too. Something more than skin deep."

Elladan said intently, "Elrohir and I, and Daernana, for that matter, think Arwen the most potentially dangerous of all of our Adar's children."

Elrohir continued,"Tonight, well, everyone makes mistakes, muindor. And 'twas nearly a thousand years ago that she last bore arms into battle a-purpose."

Aragorn winced, "That long...and yet she nearly made it so that we didn't need the ambush." Arwen had required rescue, 'ere the end, but she'd been devastatingly effective, a beautiful whirlwind of death. Though she routinely lost practice bouts to the twins with good cheer, tonight she'd been the equal of the two of them, and more, all by herself.

The twins nodded solemnly, and Elladan tried to explain, "And that's not even what we mean, really. You call Arwen your faith, and...she can be that, because she does believe in you, and you need that."

"But, muindor, if you fail..." Elrohir paused again, seeking words, and at last saying, "If matters work out as we fear rather than as we hope, Arwen may well be Sauron's fate."

"Not by herself," Elladan hastily elaborated, as Aragorn's expression grew panicked at the thought that if he died, Arwen might go after Sauron herself, "She's not stupid, but...she can organize, muindor."

"Mostly Arwen has never truly committed herself to anything for very long." Elrohir agreed, "But when she does, she is..."

"Impressively, scarily effective." Elladan supplied, "If you fail, most think there's no hope, and probably that's true."

"But Daernana likes contingency plans. And Daernana's fall-back plan is Arwen," Elrohir explained, "Though we don't know much more, and I don't even know if Daernana has mentioned it to Arwen."

"Probably not, actually." Elladan speculated, "Arwen is sure that you're going to win, Aragorn. Too certain of your success to have a rational discussion about contingencies. We think you will, too. Win, that is. But either, way, um, locking Arwen up, it's a bad idea. And Adar might, if he heard about what she did today."

"No telling Adar about the ruined ambush." Aragorn murmured, a bit overwhelmed with the night's revelations, but nonetheless believing that his elder brothers were steering him rightly, "Agreed."

The twins nodded, and Elrohir went off to check on Halbarad, while Elladan pressed a small pouch into Aragorn's hand.

"Salve," the younger twin told Aragorn, patting his hand over the pouch in Aragorn's hands, and kissing Aragorn's cheek in a brotherly fashion, before explaining, "For you and Arwen. Have some fun together, tonight. Life can be too cursedly short." Elladan stepped away before Aragorn could thank him.

In the morning, the two who would someday be the Queen and King of Gondor and Arnor, if they won their impossible struggle, were smiling and casting happy, loving looks at one another again. The twins departed, going off on their knight errantry, but Undomiel stayed with Strider and his men for a season. She did not fight beside them, save when they were taken unawares, and needed every blade. But she met her beloved's people, who would be her people. And she helped them to organize.


	2. Messages from the Wizard’s Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief conversation between a Captain General and a Wizard. Or, if you befriend one of the brothers Hurin, in time you end up the friend of the other as well. And it wasn’t always Faramir running Boromir’s errands.

Gandalf the Gray sighed as his sleeve became adhered yet again to the dried mead on the bar. At least the ale was decent.

“Sorry for the wait, Mithrandir.” Lord Boromir, the relatively new Captain-General of Gondor’s Armies, apologized sincerely, if not profusely. The sullen bartender perked up at the sight of Denethor’s heir, who apparently frequented this establishment. Boromir took a seat beside the Wizard and grinned at the Barkeep, who brought him his usual drink without prompting.

“I usually meet your brother in the archives, son of Denethor.” The Wizard observed dryly. “There I can spend my time waiting profitably at least.”

Boromir shook his head. “My adar Lord Denethor has several men who report to him on the chief archivist’s staff, and I cannot afford the breach between him and I that Faramir willingly courts for you.”

“Ah.” The Wizard observed. “It is true that no one would think to look for me here. Where is your brother? He sent a message through Radagast that he had something for me.”

“Faramir couldn’t be here, he’s been made Captain of the Rangers in Ithilien.” Boromir explained, drinking thirstily. The young Lord looked to have just arrived from patrol, having taken the time to shed his armor but not to change clothes.

“Faramir? A captain already, so young?” The wizard commented, somewhat surprised.

His brother shrugged, “Fara is very clever, and quite good at being sneaky as well, for someone who prefers honesty. The effectiveness of the Ithilien rangers, and their rate of survival, has increased nearly two fold since the officers began implementing his suggestions. And that is despite increasing pressure on the borders from Mordor and Sauron’s allies. Father would do Faramir no special favors, but when both of the older captains next up for promotion with Ithilien experience, and Ithilien’s senior lieutenants, recommended Fara be promoted above them, so as to formalize the authority the senior Ithilien lieutenants had already granted him in fact, even Father ran out of objections.”

“Hmm.” The wizard commented, noting how Boromir, while clearly disapproving of Denethor’s attitude toward his younger brother, was careful not to openly criticize the Steward.

“Fara asked me to give you the information the Rangers have gained about several of the routes into and out of Mordor, and about the status of Sauron’s allegiances with the Haradrim and Easterlings.” Boromir said, handing the Wizard a leather satchel with about a thumb’s worth of papers inside.

Gandalf looked quickly over the coded notes in his old pupil’s handwriting, eyes widening. “How are they learning of dissension between the Haradrim and Sauron’s agents?”

Boromir grimaced, appearing a strange combination of proud and nauseated. “Fara and a friend of his have set up an informal network of informants.”

Gandalf, mentally reviewing the information contained in the notes, and how specific that information was as to the motivations, fears, and desires of some of those Haradrim commanders, and agents of Sauron, blanched. “Faramir is going among them, isn’t he? Does your stubborn fool of a brother have any idea how dangerous that is, should he be discovered?”

Boromir sighed deeply, and motioned the bar keep for another round of drinks.

“He does, Wizard.” Boromir explained grimly. “He was captured by them when a young lieutenant, and, though tortured, managed to convince them that he was a merchant in the service of an Easterling Lord, one whose loyalty he had won by speaking up for the man’s innocence when that merchant was accused of a crime whilst visitng Dol Amroth when we were children.” Boromir quickly drank his beer, hoping to banish the memory of his little brother at the mercy of Haradrim soldiers.

The Wizard snorted, and took a fortifying sip of the Gondorian ale Boromir had orderd for him. “I see, and this being Faramir, decided that since his story and bona fides had been established, it would be a waste not to continue using the identity.”

Boromir nodded regretfully. “Bought and paid for, said Faramir. Might as well not waste the gift, my manipulative baby brother insisted.”

Gandalf remarked mildly “Your brother’s antics, now that he has been set loose on the world, remind of an old elven saying about genius, that it means, first, a transcendent capacity for making trouble.”* Gandalf had always wondered if the elven seer who had coined that particular saying had done so after experiencing a premonition about the later existence of the Lord Elrond’s twin sons.

The older son of Denethor laughed loud and long. “In faith, Wizard, I think I may come to like you. You are one of the only people in the world who truly understands my troublesome, wonderful brother, and I thank you.”

Before they parted, Boromir gave to Gandalf the address of a mistress Nessanie on the third level of the city, explaining “Nessa can reach me, if you need to get in touch. She can reach Faramir, as well, and its best my Father doesn’t know we are still your friends.”

Though pleased to have the once-distant Boromir refer to them as friends, Gandalf still felt it his responsibility to chide the young human Lord. “Boromir,” the Wizard said sternly, “You are your father’s heir, meant to rule as Steward after him someday. You need a wife, not a mistress.”

Boromir’s face darkened. He glared at the Wizard for a moment, before his eyes softened as he explained. “She would be my wife if my father would agree. I’ll change his mind, given time, I think.”

As he rode away from Minas Tirith, Gandalf reflected sadly that Faramir perhaps knew their father better than Boromir, for all that the greater affection lay between the father and the eldest son.

*Paraphrased from Thomas Carlyle, Life of Fredrick the Great, Bk. IV, ch. 3 (1858–1865)


	3. The Ithilien Ranger on Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Captain Boromir was wounded in a skirmish, and the Lord Steward Denethor has summoned his second son home from Ithlilien, to keep his brother company as he heals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Faramir has just turned 17, and Boromir is 22. Times are changing…
> 
> “He is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. He is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. He is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. He is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, he’s the reason you wish you were an only child.” – paraphrased from a quote by Barbara Alper

“If you push your recovery, you donkey, you may not regain full use of your knee.” Faramir reprimanded his brother, quiet for all he was concerned and frustrated.

Faramir almost never raised his voice. Boromir would rage at great volume when overset, but not his kit. No, when Boromir’s baby brother, newly minted a ranger only last spring, became frustrated and intense, his voice went even softer. But it had a new seriousness to it, as well – quiet thunder. Faramir was growing up, changing so fast, Boromir noted absently. The younger of Denethor’s two sons had always been a slender whippet of a thing, but now he was growing tall, and corded muscle ran over his thin body. His newly grown red-gold mustache must be a challenge to keep so neat in the wilds of Ithilien, but somehow, Faramir had managed. Boromir tried to restrain his jealousy. His own hair, a paler gold, lent itself less well to the neat manly display of facial hair that was popular amongst Gondor’s young lords. Then Boromir registered what his brat of a brother had just said, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Pot calling kettle black, little brother.” Boromir scolded in disapproval, then aborted his lecture in favor of an undignified groan at a spasm from his injured, over-strained leg. Accursed newly trained horse – if only his mount had not thrown a shoe prior to his last engagement! The horse HE had trained would never have shied thusly at a snapping warg, and the injury would have been avoided.

“Aye, I know.” Faramir grinned in self-deprecating agreement, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. The new ranger’s hands were gentle as he massaged Boromir’s healing leg. “But I would be a poor brother if I let you contend with this alone.”

“You must be returning soon, to Ithilien.” Boromir noted regretfully. “I like not having you posted somewhere so dangerous, and so far away. But even I must admit you are a boon to them. And that it has been good for you, to have been stationed so long in one place that folk get to know you well enough to listen to you. You take some getting used to, Fara.”

“So I have been told.” The younger soldier drawled, amused, before reluctantly agreeing “I shall be returning soon, I must leave in but a few minutes to check on the new recruits and Rangers returning from leave who are to accompany me back to Henneth Annûn. Winter is coming, and there are a few things I’ve read of these past few weeks, keeping you company, that I’d like to put to Captain Andacar, and see if we can perhaps get into place before our movements are confined by weather.”

Boromir hid a smile at the casual way his brother, only months out of the academy, spoke of sitting down with his captain, then frowned a little. It was good that the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers was listening to Faramir, but that was a lot of responsibility to put on a young soldier, still learning the ropes.

“Don’t worry, Brom.” Faramir reassured, seeing his brother’s frown and guessing wrongly as to its cause. “I’ve asked Father to watch out for you, since I will be gone.”

“What?” Boromir asked, in shock. ‘Don’t tell Father,’ was an unwritten rule of the two brothers’ lives. That Faramir had broken it shocked his elder brother.

“He loves you, Brom.” Faramir explained softly, helping his brother to a settee to lay down. “He will make sure you do not push your recovery, and that you are not posted back to your regiment until you are ready.”

“He loves you too.” Boromir protested, wanting to recognize the act of love from Faramir that going to Denethor must have been. “He just can’t look at you without seeing what he lost when Mother died.”

“I know.” Faramir said softly, meeting Boromir’s eyes though he wanted nothing more than to look away. “I’ve always known, I can’t help it.”

“Things have gotten better since you finished training, between you and Ada.” Boromir commented, wanting desperately for his father and brother, both of whom he loved so dearly, to have the comfort of eachother’s affection.

“Better, yes. But only in that he recognizes I am doing my best, to have finished so high in my class at the academy, and to have been posted as a ranger. The best I fear we’re ever going to be able to be, father and I, is respectful strangers.”

Boromir, knowing this was truth even as he wished with all his heart it was not, nodded painfully. “You deserve better, Faramir.” He said finally. “I am more sorry than I can say, that I cannot fix it.”

Faramir grasped his brother’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “It is not your fault, nor was it your problem to fix. We were both children, you and I, when this pattern was set. I know Father never really recovered from the grief of mother’s illness and death. But still, father was the adult, and the responsibility was his. But other responsibilities were also his, including being Gondor’s leader in this dark time. If he must hate me to do that job, I can accept it. Our father is a dutiful leader. If he must accept me to lead Gondor, he will. We will all keep doing our best, and maybe someday, there may be something greater between us than duty and grudging respect.”

Both brothers were silent for a moment, in gratitude that the friendship between them was strong enough to bear even the most terrible of truths. Glad that their mother had gifted them both a sibling with whom to share the burdens of being the Lord Steward Denethor’s son, in this desperate time.

“I am grateful that I may return to Ithilien, confident Father shall oversee your recovery.” Faramir said in parting. “Though I ask you to note, I would not have mentioned this to Father had there been reason for confidence that you would be a good patient.” Faramir added with a grin.

Boromir glared at his brother mildly, wishing that their lives were different, such that he, in a corresponding circumstance, could have safely left Faramir in their father’s care.

“Have a care in Ithilien, Fara.” Boromir warned instead, clasping his brother’s arm in a warrior’s greeting, and farewell.

Faramir gave him a much-loved, familiar grin. Boromir grinned back, though he was slightly unsettled by how his baby brother’s rueful smile, the same expression he’d loved for years, was strangely different in Faramir’s newly matured face. Reading the concern but not the reason, Faramir gave him a salute, ranger to Captain, which Boromir returned instinctively.

As Faramir left, his older Boromir pondered when his baby brother had found the time to do so much growing up, in just a few seasons. During Boromir’s recovery these past few weeks, Faramir had seemed more a comrade-in-arms than a pain-in-the-rear tagalong, and where would that lead?

At least Faramir’s trouble-finding friend Dervorin had not been posted to Ithilien, nor would he probably qualify for ranger training for several years, to the unqualified relief of Boromir and of Boromir’s good friend, Dev’s cousin, Lieutenant Gendarion. Fara and Dev found more trouble together….and Boromir was worried enough over his brother as it was. Faramir was an exceptional archer, hunter, and tracker, and as proud as Boromir was of his baby brother’s skills and growing maturity, he worried over Faramir as many a man might worry over a son, despite the scant five years between their ages.


	4. The Malaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of background on Faramir’s best friend in the DH AU, Dervorin, son of Morvirin, an heir of the Ringlo Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Minnie, Emma, and Kaylee for reading over when I asked.
> 
> This story takes place between T.A. 2985, Dervorin and Faramir’s birth year in the DH AU, and some years after the Ring War.
> 
> “I am old enough to know that victory is often a thing deferred, and rarely at the summit of courage. What is at the summit of courage, I think, is freedom. The freedom that comes with the knowledge that no earthly thing can break you.” – Paula Giddings

He never knew what caused it. Never. He would be fine for weeks, months, years, and then…something would happen, and he would feel frozen inside. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink. He did move and speak, because he had to. But he wasn’t really present, not all the way. As a young page, he would move like a ghost through the Citadel, delivering messages as directed, but taking hours sometimes. He would feel tired, and sit down, and hours would pass before he moved, even though he did not sleep. He couldn’t care enough to do his homework, even though he normally had a number of different games he played with Faramir, that made even the most boring assignments for their most snobbish tutors tolerable. They were still doing their assigned work to a high standard…and most of their tutors were not clever enough to pick up on the fact that every third letter in every tenth line spelled out an insulting commentary on the tutor’s personal hygiene. But when he felt frozen, he didn’t do his homework, or only did it part way, and didn’t play any games. The Castellan and their tutors would get angry, but Lord Denethor wouldn’t let them punish Dervorin. The Steward’s stern, strong features would become reluctantly sympathetic, and he would send for his Treasurer, and tell Morvirin that his son was sick.

Then Dev’s father would report to his tutors and armsmasters and the Castellan that his son was sick, and take him home for a few days, or weeks, or even months. Until the malaise passed. Sometimes his father was kind, but Lord Morvirin was not a well man, had not been since his right leg was crippled at the Battle to win back Osgiliath, not long after Lord Denethor first became Steward. Lord Morvirin would drink, and consume odd drugs purchased from those few traders who still dealt with the Haradrim. When Morvirin drank, he would curse at Dev, call him weak and ungrateful. And when he took drugs, he would beat his son. Sometimes Dev pretended to get better, and went back with the malaise still making him frozen inside, just trying to play at being better until he was better. Faramir would help then, kind gray eyes alert and sympathetic. He would charm the cooks into making Dervorin’s favorite foods, wheedle their tutors into discussing subjects he knew particularly interested Dev, and help Dev with his page duties, making everything into a game. Faramir would show him hidden parts of the Citadel, and sometimes the two of them would spend hours, even days, hiding in the abandoned royal wing. Faramir knew how to get in, and he said the old Kings wouldn’t mind that two boys hid there, until life seemed a bit more bearable. The old, abandoned royal rooms were dusty, but somehow still seemed welcoming. It was a pleasant respite.

Faramir would stand between Dev and their overly harsh armsmasters in those days, when Dev wasn’t feeling well, until Boromir found out about how little the armsmasters Denethor had hired cared about hurting their students. Then Boromir arranged for one of his Academy commanders to come to the Citadel for lunch with his father the Steward. Boromir had timed that visit so that he and his commander were just in time to see one of Dervorin and Faramir’s “lessons.” Captain the Lord Tyorvond had immediately admitted his slender nephew and the Steward’s second son into the academy as day students. The old campaigner, much trusted by the Lord Steward, had figured that the academy would be safer for them than being trained by idiots who thought nothing of flying at hesitating eight year olds with unblunted broad swords. And it was safer.

The academy was better, and after Dev’s father was banished was better still. No one beat Dev, or cursed at him anymore. Anyone who tried, Uncle Tyorvond, cousin Gendarion, or Boromir dealt with, quickly. But Dev sometimes still had times where he would feel frozen inside, sick to his stomach and bad, without knowing why. Faramir’s creativity was tested, when they were at the academy together. But Dev’s best friend managed to come up with plausible illnesses for Dev to have come down with, every time. Plausible enough to fool even his Uncle Ty. The Lords of the Ringlo Vale and the Ciril Vale, Dev’s family lines, were both known to be impure. They were Númenorean, yes, but they were also related to the darker-skinned native peoples of Gondor, and the pale-skinned foreigners who had followed King Valacar’s wife Vidumavi from her northern country. And so far as Tyorvond could remember, his only nephew Dervorin had been a sickly lad. Tyorvond was by and large pleased that the boy managed to keep up in his lessons and training, despite his many illnesses. And grateful, that Faramir and Boromir and their friends helped Dev, to stay caught up.

But Faramir couldn’t fool everyone. One of the veterans at the academy who taught strategy, looked at Dev on one of his bad days, and pulled Faramir aside. “Eleven years old, and he suffers from battle sickness already?” The old soldier had asked the Steward’s younger son, sympathetic but worried. Battle-sick soldiers could make mistakes, at the worst times. Not a good person to have at Denethor’s younger boy’s back, even if the Steward wasn’t fond of the child. Faramir was still their ruler’s spare heir.

Faramir had shrugged, “Dev’s always been like this, since I’ve known him.” The young cadet had explained, “but he holds it together, when he needs to. He’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

And so Dervorin was, Trainee Soldier, then Ranger, then Lieutenant and spy. He even saved Faramir’s life a number of times, though the one that stood out was the first time that they were captured. Alone, Faramir said he would have broken. Dev doubted that, but there was no doubt that he had been able to help. Despite the pain of the torture, he’d made jokes…one that made Faramir remember an Easterling who owed the Steward’s son a favor. The torture was horrible, but…some part of Dev remembered that he’d once survive something worse. And it protected him. Though he would fall apart just as bad as Fara, after.

The Malaise would creep up on him, sometimes, at Henneth Annûn, but mostly he was too busy to be distracted by it, and that helped. He never let it take him when he was spying, though there was once he came very close. They had been meeting with two merchants from Umbar, and one of them smelled strange. A sickly sweet smell that turned Dev’s stomach, and made him terribly afraid, though he could not think why. An unnamed horror loomed out of the hidden recesses of his mind, but Dev couldn’t see the shape of the fear, this overwhelming terror that was the root of the malaise. But Faramir was there that day, thank Eru. Faramir kept the flow of the meeting going when Dev faltered, made up an excuse about questionable fish at lunch, and got them out of there alive, with the information they’d come for, and two new contacts in the form of the merchants. Then Faramir got Dev very, very drunk, and left him at Sayyida’s. When Dev awoke, he thought he’d dreamt of Faramir and Sayyida, having an in-depth conversation about him and the malaise, and Sayyida weeping on his best friend’s shoulder. But Faramir said that all was well, and Sayyida was as inscrutable as an elf when she didn’t want to explain something. Then Faramir sent Dev on leave to Dol Amroth, and Prince Imrahil took him to the apprentice of an old Healer friend of Prince Adrahil’s, who taught Dev meditation, and other tricks, that helped. Ways to turn away the malaise, when it came upon him unawares.

Years later, talking with Sayyida, after he’d stopped even looking for the cause, Dervorin found the reason for the malaise. It was a bad night, and day, and on and off there were a few bad weeks. But the malaise never hit him as hard, again. He knew what it was, its name and cause. He might never have a face. Sayyida told him that was normal, not to see the face. Knowing what it was, speaking its name to Faramir, and its cause to Fara and Sayyida, gave Dev power over the malaise, or perhaps just reduced the malaise from an unfightable nightmare, into what it was. Something very, very bad, that had happened to Dev, long, long ago.

When he met Ethiron, it had been years since he’d had a real attack of the malaise. Then Dev had a few, in the year after the Ring War. So many kinsmen and friends dead, and gone, and so much sorrow, and stress, in the wake of the Ring War, and in consolidating Gondor’s security, with their human enemies weakened but not defeated. Ethiron made Dev see a mind-healer, the new King’s foster-brother Elladan. Dev didn’t bother to tell Ethiron he’d already seen one – it wasn’t any of his bossy new commander’s business, curse it. But Elladan helped Dev, even more. And Elladan was helping Faramir, as well, even though Faramir didn’t seem aware of it. That was the first time Dev ever kept a secret from Faramir, but Faramir, once he’d figured Elladan out, was grateful for the help, and did not resent Dev, for his discretion. Faramir was fair, like that.

Dervorin would still go speak with Elladan, from time to time, in the years that followed. Not regularly, but when he smelled the sickly sweet smell of the exotic spice ilhen, the scent his fear had worn. He hardly ever had an attack of the malaise, although when its pale, weak shade darkened his eyes with remembered sorrow, in those later years, he was still prone to be reckless, or lash out. During those times, his father of the heart would wait to spank him, no matter what kind of fear or insult Dev had given Ethiron, acting out of pain. Ethiron would tempt Dev’s reluctant appetite with his favorite foods, and keep him warm, and gently amuse him, until Dev felt better. After a few days of better, and depending on how much Dev had worried his mentor (Ethiron hardly ever cared about having been insulted, if Dev had had that kind of a bad day), Dev would find himself over Ethiron’s knee, for a stern but not cruel reminder to say “I’m having a bad day, perhaps we should send a lieutenant,” rather than going out on duty himself, without mentioning how he was feeling.

Early on in their working relationship, Dev had shocked himself by just telling Ethiron, about the malaise. What it was, and why. Not the first time it came after the war, but…when he realized that he trusted the older man. Almost more than he trusted anyone but Fara.

And it was Fara, who was even more shocked that Dervorin had trusted Ethiron. Shocked, and worried and protective enough that he and Dev got into a fight about it. Not a major fight, but enough to disrupt a hunting trip and get both of them in hot water. That was when Dev realized, again, that Faramir was at least as protective of him, as he was of Faramir.

Dervorin didn’t know that the King knew of it, not until many years later. Or that the King would care. But Aragorn just gave him that gentle look of affectionate exasperation, the one that was so often reserved for Faramir or one of his younger children, and said, “You are the heart-brother of my son. Of course I care, you foolish youth.” And Aragorn said those words in the sunny long gallery of the King’s House, where once, many years ago, Dervorin and Faramir had hidden for a few hours stolen play time. And Dervorin knew, then, that the old Kings truly would not have begrudged two young boys a refuge. More, that this King wished very dearly that he had been able to do even more. But Faramir and Dervorin both had been born in a desperate hour, when the King had been far away, fighting his own battles in the North, and in stranger lands.


	5. Now, Arwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was it Glorfindel or Arwen who rode to Frodo's aid from Imladris? this chapter is an attempt to somewhat reconcile book and movie canon regarding Frodo's flight into Imladris, for purposes of the DH AU.

Glorfindel, Captain of the Guard of Imladris, valued advisor and honorary grandfather to the great Lord Elrond Half Elven, and Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of fallen Gondolin, carefully and silently climbed into position on a bluff above the river Bruinen. Here he would be able to see spy the small figure of the ringbearer, and the approaching Nazgul which threatened him. Glorfindel the Golden, Glorfindel the Reborn and Returned, knew that a test was coming the like of which even he had never seen before. He hoped that he was ready.

Glorfindel left aside his mortal weapons, not drawing them yet. He had arrows of a flame that would never stop burning, cooked up by the alchemists of Imladris, but he did not know if it would work to slay, harm, or even seriously inconvenience a Nazgul. A hundred feet below him, Lady Arwen, the second youngest of his honorary great-grandchildren, held his horse.

Glorfindel knew how to wait. Every warrior does. In his years of life he'd learned that a hundred years can move slowly, and nothing much can happen in a thousand. Then one century will come along, and several millenia worth of events are packed into a few short decades, and seemingly the events of a millennium into a single year. This year of the Third Age 3018 was such a year. For even now the hobbit Frodo approached Imladris.

Just a few hours ago, Lord Elrond had consulted with his advisors, and then sent those few elves strong enough to stand against the ringwraiths to meet "Gandalf's friends" and guide them to safety. Those elves were were three; Glorfindel himself, then Lady Ambaraxiel the engineer of Aman, and last the Lord Ingloren the Alchemist, of Alqualonde. With each of these Lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas, were sent several companions, and one of Glorfindel's was Arwen.

Glorfindel was pleased enough with the support of Arwen and the other soldiers he'd chosen. Oh, he would have preferred the twins, but Elrond's twin sons had been sent ahead to scout for what Gandalf thought was the best chance. Lord Erestor and his son Melpomaen were frantically researching, considering other options for this most significant of times.

It was not that Arwen was incapable, or inexperienced, back-up. But the twins were much more experienced, were, in fact, lieutenants in Glorfindel's guard, and their actions were predictable. Well, somewhat predictable. Glorfindel loved Arwen dearly, but she could decide, with the sudden "I just know this must be," of her grandmother Galadriel, that a certain course of action was for the best. And then there was no stopping her. Glorfindel had more sympathy for that type of thing since he'd developed prophetic abilities of his own after returning to Middle Earth as a reborn elf. However, it was not the most comforting of traits in a subordinate.

Glorfindel saw the enemy approaching then, with unearthly speed.

*Glorfindel, I will go to get Frodo.* Arwen silently called to him.

There was no time to tell her no. She was mounted on his horse Asfaloth, and across the river before he could say her nay. And in truth, the mountain and valley of Imaldris had embraced Elrond's people as its own, and Arwen was of the Lord's own blood. If Arwen was beyond the boundary of the valley, the valley might well decide that its boundary, today, was wherever Arwen was. It might have done the same for any elf of Imladris...but for Elrond's daughter, it was a better bet.

And one that he didn't even need to make. Arwen caught Frodo, and nimble Asfaloth carried them back over the border of Elrond's valley. Again, perhaps for the best that 'twas Arwen, and not he. Arwen weighed several stone less, and in an all out race against creatures of such unnatural speed, that might make a difference, even to Asfaloth. There would be time to discuss and analyze it later, for now Glorfindel just said to Arwen. *Well done, guren. When I tell you, say the words of power with me, and pretend the power itself comes from you.* Glorfindel gave the Nazgul a dangerous smile from his place of concealment. *We'll teach you dread creatures caution, undue or not, if you think Undomiel alone wields this power.*

Glorfindel witnessed Arwen denying the Nazgul passage, every inch the daughter of her formidable father and impressive mother. A pause, and then Glorfindel could see the ringwraiths regathering. *Now, Arwen.* He urged. They spoke the words of power together, Elrond's grandfather of the heart and Elrond's youngest daughter. Elrond himself felt their effort, and Glorfindel felt his Lord grant them the support of vilya and of the adamantine will of the Peredhel who had wielded a ring of power for nearly five thousand years. And the river rose up at the Fords of Bruinen, overcoming the ringwraiths and saving the ringbearer.

Elrond himself had no time to do more than note that Arwen and Glorfindel were by and large unharmed, as Frodo was in such dire straits when they brought him with best speed into Imladris proper. As he cared for the ringbearer, exhausted himself from the effort of helping to repulse the Nazgul, Elrond missed Elladan's assistance. Then Estel- Lord Aragorn, now - was beside him. And Elrond was deeply grateful for Aragorn's careful hands, and amazed at what his human foster-son had learned of healing, in less than a century of life.

Then the young, fragile halfling Frodo was at peaceful rest, and Elrond was with his youngest children. His daughter and his human foster-son, his brother Elros's long-son, the son who would take his daughter away from him, if Sauron fell. Elrond was grateful, so grateful that they had passed this first test. Embracing them both, he gently scolded Arwen and Aragorn. "Why must all of my children terrify me."

"Aragorn acted rightly, as did Arwen, Elrond guren." Glorfindel spoke up on Arwen's behalf. "Had Arwen not rode to Frodo's aid, the ringwraiths might have had him before I could aid him, and all may have been lost."

"And somehow it seems that you are always aiding my children in terrifying me." Elrond scolded Glorfindel, as he extended an arm to hug Glorfindel, who had guarded Elrond and his family since before the sun rose. Elrond worried over Glorfindel, as well; Glorfindel had died once already, for his family. And Elrond might soon have to ask him to accompany Estel...Aragorn, to Mount Doom, to destroy the ring.

Glorfindel stepped closer, and encircled all three of Aragorn, Arwen and Elrond within his strong arms. Chuckling fondly in relief, he murmured to Elrond "They are your children, my elfling Lord. They need no aid to be terrifyingly courageous, for they inherited such bravery honestly from you and your dear lady." Glorfindel was glad they had won this day. Valar only knew how they would win this age, but the day was won. And as Glorfindel had learned from Elrond's twin sons, a day won was a victory to be celebrated.


	6. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short story of Undomiel and her Knights Errant, and what they were up to, in the nearly a century between when Arthedain fell, and when Gandalf drove Sauron from Dol Guldur in 2063, starting the Watchful Peace. Also a story about loss, and love, and moving on, after the Ring War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That the twin sons of Elrond often fought with the Dunedain of Arnor, and are described as often having been about "on knight errantry," is canon. All of the rest of this, really, is my own idea of what Arwen might have been up to, in those days. It was rare for elven women to take up soldiery, but my understanding is that there was no gender bar against it, per se.

Year 1974 of the Third Age, Imladris

"You've never shown much interest in joining the guard proper, guren." Captain the Lord Glorfindel told his Lord's youngest daughter bluntly, "But you've trained diligently o'er the years, and fought in real engagements often enough that you've gained some experience. I'll take you, but you'll have to listen. And that's not always your best skill."

"I'll listen." Arwen replied, numb inside. "Belemir is dead, but I owe this to him."

"We do not know that he is, muinthel-laes." Elrohir said gently.

"I know. You would know, if it were Elladan. I know." Arwen replied, Belemir's last letter, smuggled through by a brave scout, tucked inside her tunic, against her breast. "We will hold out as long as we can, we of Arthedain." He had written her. And somehow, she knew, keeping that promise had been the death of the brother she had called her "twin."

Approximately year 2053 of the Third Age, somewhere in what was once Arnor

Thrust, cut, parry, slash, and cut again. The orc fell, his head severed from its body. Arwen did not pause, she dropped to her knees beside the young boy the orc had held captive.

"Shh, sweetling." Lord Elrond's daughter murmured, "Tell me where you are hurt."

The boy was too terrified and hurt to voice anything but a thin, traumatized cry. Where he was hurt was obvious enough, though, and tragically, there was little Arwen could do. When the orc had realized that he would not escape with his prey, he had dealt the boy what was meant to be a death blow. But it was a wound the child could have survived, if Arwen had been quicker. Or if her companions had kept up.

"Muinthel-nin, would it have killed you to have waited?" Elladan huffed, swinging himself down from his saddle. Elrohir, beside him, was evidently too angry to talk.

Arwen didn't care. She didn't even look up at them. She was too busy cradling the child, crooning to him, "I know it hurts, my love, but soon enough, you will be warm, and safe, and there will be no more pain." Arwen did not think she was lying; she had always been told the Halls of Mandos were a good place, where mortal hurts were felt no more. Where Lord Namo cradled the dead to his breast, before returning them to the arms of their loving family members who had preceded the newly deceased to his halls. So Lord Glorfindel, her honorary great-grandfather, had told her and her siblings, and so she believed. It was very important that she believed, as Belemir was there now, with his beautiful young wife and their unborn child, and Arwen had to believe that they were all happy and peaceful, together.

Elladan's hands gently double-checked the boy's wounds, and her second eldest brother..now her youngest living brother, hissed angrily.

"Never mind Elladan, my darling." Arwen whispered reassuringly to the child in her arms. "He is not wroth with you. Be at peace, best beloved. Soon you will be well again." She did not look at Elladan. All of her focus was on the boy. Her brothers were here now; they could worry about things like making sure the other orcs were all truly dead, or that wolves or trolls did not sneak up on them, or whatever it was that Glor would worry over, were he here.

"Nana?" The child said questioningly, his eyes still pained, but no longer terrified, and then, "I love you." In these last moments, grievously wounded and delirious, the poor boy had mistaken Elrond's maiden daughter for his own mother.

Arwen's heart skipped a beat, but she did not hesitate to reply, "Nana loves you too, sweetling. Nana loves you always, will always be proud of you." Then the light in the child's eyes went out, and Arwen held naught but a corpse. Kneeling in the forest between her brothers, she bowed her dark head over yet another casualty of the Witch-King of Angmar's recurrent attempts to claim what was left of Arnor. His attempts to kill all of what remained of Arnor by wearing down the populace through constant small-scale attacks, after he'd tried and failed to take and hold Imladris. Unfortunately for the Witch-King, the Dunedain of Arthedain, of what had been Arnor, had followed Belemir's plan...they could no longer hold a city against Angmar or Mordor. So they didn't give their enemy a city to concentrate his mighty armies upon. Instead, the survivors moved to isolated and well-hidden villages. To attack them, the orcs had to find them, which took time and effort. And the villages all had escape plans; survival, not holding ground, was their goal. And they were good at surviving, such that even attacking and razing every village in what had been Arnor would not have been enough to kill off her hardened survivors. Take that, Witch-King.

The Witch-King had taken it poorly. And so he sent his minions, the orcs and the men of the East, to plague Undomiel's people in smaller numbers. And they always took children, or women, if they could.

Arwen tenderly placed the small boy on the ground. Before Arthedain fell, before Belemir died, even in the first decades afterward, she would have cried over this death, as she'd cried over so many others. Now her eyes were dry. Her grief was no less, but it had long ago turned somewhere else.

"They scattered to flee, not regroup." She lectured her brothers, the anger that she felt for their late arrival real, but like the grief, turned somewhere else.

"I did not care to gamble our lives on that." Elrohir retorted, his eyes fiery.

Arwen's anger quickened, and she started to reply that it had not been Elrohir's choice alone, curse it all. She had seen this attack coming, and they had given the command to her. She had said to pursue the orc fleeing with a child captive, not secure their own line of advance. But she only had time to formulate her thoughts and open her mouth.

"Leave it, muindor, muinthel." Elladan's voice cracked into the cold night air, and it was commanding, as Elladan almost never was.

"What? Why?" Elrohir whirled on his twin now, "She could have died, all for a child who was probably dead, anyway."

"Shut up, Elrohir. Now is not the time." Elladan replied quietly, undoubtedly saying other things too, over their twin bond, but Arwen did not hear him. Nor could she really bestir herself to care. She agreed, that it was not the time.

Arahael and two other rangers appeared then, their mounts lathered. "We saved the village, Undomiel." The Chieftain's son reported to Arwen.

Arwen nodded woodenly, and was glad, in truth. But she couldn't move herself to feel anything but a kind of deadened relief. Still, saving the village was a victory, and it deserved praise. She reached inside herself, somewhere deep, and pulled out, "Well done, muindor-laes." For her brother Belemir's nephew, her own distant cousin and foster-brother, Arwen would keep going. The twins exchanged worried looks, but came to their sister's side when she looked to them and beckoned. In an organized fashion, as they'd done this many times before, Arwen and the twins worked with the three Dunedain to organize the clean up and the safe re-location of the village.

Melpomaen met them with the survivors, and they used the bright moonlight to move them all to a cave that the twins remembered from a happier trip, in brighter times. Arahael would have stayed up with his elven kin, to keep watch. But Elladan looked him over, and said no, and Arahael listened, eventually. So it was just Undomiel and her Knights Errant, keeping watch over their uncle's people, also their own brother's people, by lost Belemir's marriage to Arahael's aunt.

"The worst possible timing." The twins' gwador Melpomaen murmured, "Winter's set in, and they've lost their supplies."

"And more." Arwen added softly.

"Two hundred to twelve, muinthel-laes." Elladan said softly. "We did the right thing."

"It was you who saw that they were feinting, Arwen." Elrohir added, and his voice was kind, now, too. It was Elrohir's strategies that the elves and rangers had followed to save the village, his drills that had given the villagers the skills and the practice they needed to get to their safe hiding places in the genuine emergency. But if Arwen hadn't looked at the orcs' seemingly random attack pattern, and seen that they'd somehow learned the location of this village, then they might well have lost all two hundred and twelve Dunedain, rather than just the few villagers the orcs had taken from a party sent to gather mistletoe and pine branches for Yule.

"Ten more dead." Arwen replied, her voice dull now that Arahael and the rangers were too far away to hear.

Melpomaen shook his head at her, his almond eyes gently reproving, "We are not perfect, Arwen. We moved as fast as we could once we realized their true objective. Do not blame yourself, mellon muin nin.

"I'm not taking the blame." Arwen retorted, and that was true. It went beyond blame, beyond...anything she could put into words. "Where is Angmar getting an inexhaustible supply of orcs from, anyway?" The youngest lady of Imladris wondered grumpily, putting her arms around her knees.

Elrohir shrugged. "No one knows. However, I do not have an inexhaustible supply of younger siblings, so you will be more careful, muinthel-laes, or I will send you home to Ada and Nana, and tell them and Glorfindel exactly what you have been doing."

Arwen was ready to tell Elrohir exactly what he could do with his suggestion, save that Elladan put a hand on her knee, and said, again, "Shut up, Elrohir."

Melpomaen and Elrohir both stared at the younger twin, as Elladan turned his attention to Arwen.

"There's a line, between 'good general' and 'complete and utter burn out,' between 'endurance' and 'depletion of a great heart and mind to the extent that the leader in question will make a terrible mistake, out of exhaustion and heartsickness.'" Elladan said softly. "Sending you home doesn't intimidate you at all, at this point, and we don't have the elves to force you to go if you don't want to, anyway. Its an empty threat. But this one is real, my beloved sister. Step back and take a breath, and if you're at the point where you can't keep on, or you get there soon, for Eru's sake let us know before you miss something, and get us all killed."

That broke through Arwen's reserve, and she started crying. Elladan pulled her into his arms, and Elrohir and Melpomaen patted her gently on the shoulder, and then went to guard elsewhere. Arwen sobbed for a long time, until she came to a point of peace. Not contentment, but...at least a catharsis. "I hate being away from baths." She said at last, her voice so hoarse from weeping that she could barely recognize it as her own. "And I hate dirt. I never used to, and I would use that sometimes to bother Andreth when I was an elfling. But now I hate it. I hate not being clean, I hate blood, and death, and not...not being able to stop it. I hate it all."

"Me too." Elladan replied softly. "And I hate camp food. I also hate that you're the best of us, at seeing what's going to happen before it does. Elrohir hates that too, that's part of why he's acting like a bear with a toothache. Its not because he's jealous, though. Its because he would've liked to have sent you home for a rest awhile ago, but he's a good general as well as a good brother, and he knows that we are much more effective, with you. So how are you, really? There's no shame in needing a rest. Its better than...well, its better than snapping, like Caradhon did during the siege, and getting yourself and others killed, and breaking Glor's heart, again. And Ada's and Nana's. You're our one and only baby sister, we've already lost our baby brother. We can't lose you, too."

And Arwen thought about that, thought about it very seriously. "I'm not...ok." She replied at last, absolutely truthful. "But I don't think I'm at the point where I'm going to snap, or even miss something. I'm close, but I'm not there. Not yet."

Elladan nodded at her, his gray eyes serious and searching. Finally, he nodded again. "You're not ok. But you'll do. For now."

And that was as much as any of them could ask. Arwen fell asleep then, cradled in Elladan's protective embrace. When the dawn came, she searched out Elrohir.

"I should have consulted with you, or 'Dan or Arahael, before going after the orc and the child he had captive. It was a mistake not to; I won't do it again." Arwen promised softly.

Elrohir's stern gray eyes softened, and he pulled her into his arms. "You'd better not." Elrohir murmured fiercely, pressing a kiss to his youngest sister's dark head. They stood like that for awhile, until Melpomaen and one of the Dunedain arguing about how best to cook the porridge somehow resulted in a small fire, and they were both needed to help with that.

Then they were on their way, pulling rangers and militia from the nearest villages, and parceling out the survivors of the previous day's attack into smaller groups, to spend the rest of the winter with some of the surrounding villages. And making sure that they had left absolutely no discernible tracks, in case that, too, had been part of the orcs' plan. And, in Arwen's case, pondering where the orcs were getting their numbers, and their increasingly dogged determination.

"There's something...off." Arwen said late that night, when she should have been sleeping. And Elrohir should have been sleeping too, but he listened instead. Then he woke Elladan and Melpomaen, who were sleeping in a real bed for once, and rather displeased to be roused. But they listened, too. Because Elrohir and Arwen didn't agree often, but when they did, they were often right.

The five of them talked long into the night, despite having another long day of riding and relocating ahead of them. It wasn't the first time, Arwen reflected, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The Dunedain of Lost Arnor were their Lost Belemir's people, and Uncle Elros's. Elrond's children and their gwador, Belemir's family, would defend and protect these people until the last breath left their bodies. Arwen, herself, was so far beyond the end of her endurance, she couldn't even see the forest for the trees. She couldn't go on, but no more could she stop. And neither could her brothers, or Melpomaen. She was Undomiel, and they were her Knights Errant. Love and loss bound them, and love kept them going.

3019 of the Third Age, the King's Garden in the Citadel of Minas Tirith

"We just held out as long as we could, we rangers of Ithilien." Faramir murmured distantly, "I was willing to buy that time with my life. There are days when I am not really sure what to do with myself, having outlived so many." He chuckled, though there was more pain than humor in the sound. "I never expected to live to this point, you see."

Arwen's eyes met Elrond's, over the head of her father's convalescing patient, their dear new friend. Both were struck by how similar Faramir's words were to lost Belemir's last letter. The line of Elros played tricks, over succeeding generations. Some descendants of the line, who had as much elven blood as any others, showed it little if at all. And then, sometimes, there was someone like Aragorn, or Faramir, who were throwbacks to Elendil's generation, at least. Arwen had never known Elendil, whom her father and their elder family members told her that her beloved husband closely resembled. But Arwen had known Belemir better than anyone. And Faramir reminded her more of Belemir than anyone ever had, though Belemir had been blond, and Faramir's hair was red-gold. Though Belemir had been more than half an elf, and Faramir was all but a small portion human.

"It is well that you did not have to, Faramir my friend." Elrond said gently. "Be grateful that you lived, as we are grateful, as those you loved, and lost, would also be."

Arwen thought about what she would have said to Belemir, if he had lived, and many of his loved ones had not. She could tell her father's words had run over Faramir's mind like water off of a duck's feathers, penetrating little, if at all.

Arwen's cat, a gift from Faramir, thumped ungracefully down from a nearby tree. Thumper, as Arwen had named her, was heavily with kitten, but that had not stopped her from bringing the recuperating Faramir a fine dead bird, which she laid on his lap before anyone could stop her.

Lord Elrond sighed, and picked up gift and cat, intending to take Thumper, at least, to the soft, warm nest of blankets Arwen had made in the bottom shelf of a linen closet. Arwen wasn't sure what her father intended to do with the dead bird, but the whole scene, and Lord Elrond lecturing the cat about proper hygiene, was rather funny. Arwen and Faramir shared a smile.

"She's going to kitten on your husband's favorite dressing gown, or somewhere horribly inappropriate like that, I'm afraid." Faramir confessed, his gray eyes alight with rueful good humor.

Arwen smiled back, amused by the thought, but more glad that her young friend was finding amusement in small things, again. Perhaps it would just take time, for Faramir to feel better, in mind and spirit. Time, and Eowyn, perhaps, would be enough. "I think Elladan may be coaching her to do so." The Queen confessed, still pondering what she might say, to help Faramir. In the end, she had nothing to offer, but her own hard-won knowledge. She hoped it might be enough.

"Eru help him, if Aragorn learns of that." Faramir murmured, lips quirking into another smile.

"Fara-nin." Arwen said softly, sitting down beside Faramir on the garden bench, and cupping the side of his face gently in her hand, "I once survived a long struggle, past when I truly cared myself whether I lived or died. I had lost...the brother who was like my twin, Belemir, whom you have heard us speak of but rarely."

"I...I did not know, my Lady." Faramir replied, voice rich with sympathy and compassion. "I am sorry, for your loss."

"I spent the better part of a century, after my war was over, lost in my grief." Arwen continued. "It was a waste."

"I...I'm sorry," Faramir said, and Arwen saw other thoughts gathering in his eyes, something about time, and how elven relationships were long, and a century perhaps not too long to spend in mourning.

"It was too long." Arwen said firmly, before he could speak. "And don't be sorry; just realize, muin-nin, that your war is over. It is time, at last, for you to live, free of that care. Don't waste the time, like I did." Arwen didn't say so, but both realized. It was now true that Arwen Undomiel, like her husband and their Steward, only had a finite amount of time left, for wasting or living.

"I...I don't know how." Faramir said, part explanation, part desperation, all true. At least he was really listening, and actually thinking.

"I know." Arwen comforted, pulling him carefully into her arms. "I know, Faramir, muin-nin. We will help you, my family and I. So will Nessa, Dervorin, even unhygienic Thumper."

Faramir, in her arms, huffed a laugh, through silent, healing tears, and Arwen smiled a little. "All will be well, Fara-nin. You will see. You just have to let your friends help you, until your lady arrives in the spring. Then she will help you too, and you will see, it will not be so hard." Arwen held her young friend the Steward of Gondor until twilight came, with its gentle glow, and the fireflies twinkled in the garden. Faramir had fallen asleep, but he was not so heavy, and the temperature was pleasant. Almost as if the air itself caressed them, in joyful celebration of a Middle Earth free of the ring and its foul maker.

As the stars appeared, Arwen sensed the approach of her love, though he moved so softly, even in his new boots, that she did not hear him. "Is all well? Is Faramir ok?" Aragorn asked in concern, still dressed in his fine robes, the hated "King outfit," from his long day. Arwen's husband hated being King without his Steward's capable assistance, but he hated more that Faramir had been exhausted enough, had neglected his own healing body enough, to need the rest.

"No, he's not ok." Arwen answered, honestly. "But he'll do, for now. And I think he will be better than ok, given time."

Aragorn looked at her, putting one small clue and another together in his active mind. "This is one of those "its an inside joke, but you can't possibly understand, because you weren't alive in Year 300 of the Third Age," things, isn't it?" He asked his wife.

Arwen chuckled lightly, surrendering their sleeping Steward to her husband's strong, caring arms. "Close, meleth. The years 1974 to 2063, more precisely."

"Ah." Aragorn said, the expression in his gray eyes sympathetic and compassionate.

Arwen blinked. "For a moment, you looked just like Faramir did, when I told him of it." She blurted out in surprise.

Aragorn chuckled. "Elrohir says that, too. That we favor one another, at times. We are both of Elros's line, Faramir and I, cousins, however distantly. It happens like that, at times, that some of us whose most recent common ancestor walked on Numenor, will somehow look like brothers." Aragorn cradled Faramir in his arms gently, and stood. "Time to get my young kinsman to his room, and ready for a late dinner." He said fondly. "Will you come, meleth?"

"In a while." Arwen said, standing and stretching. "I feel closest to Belemir under the stars, and I would spend a few moments, telling him of our distant cousins. The one I married, and the one who held Ithilien for us, these last long years."

"Well enough, Undomiel," Aragorn replied gently, his eyes shining lovingly at her. "But do not tarry too long. 'Else I may send your troublesome brothers out to gather saltbush plant blossoms, and Legolas with them."

Arwen blinked in surprise, again, and pointed out gently, "Meleth, that plant blooms only in the fall. You know so, and they will know so too."

"Best you come soon, then," Aragorn said with a grin, "'Else who knows what desperate measures I will resort to."

"I will not tarry long." Arwen promised. As the beasts and insects of the garden sang their nightly chorus, she looked up at the stars. "I will do even better, this time, gwanur-nin." Arwen promised Belemir softly, "No more lost time, for me or our kinsmen. Now that war is over, I will strive for joy, in part out of devotion to you. A better legacy, I think, then a lost century." Getting up to go into the King's House, Arwen smiled up at the velvety dark, star-studded sky one last time, and spoke again, "Farewell, beloved brother. Wherever you are. I will keep watch over our young kinsmen, until we meet again."


	7. An Alligator for Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir has a request of his Uncle Imrahil, but not as a nephew. As the Captain-General of Gondor. At first, Imrahil isn't sure whether his jocular nephew wants the alligators for a prank, or whether this is in fact a serious military requisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the DH AU, Faramir has recently been promoted to Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, and Boromir to Captain-General of Gondor. This would be in about T.A. 3009 or 3010.

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth blinked, and counted to ten. He was not a man accustomed to being shocked. He was the second most powerful man in Gondor, and he had ruled a Princedom while helping to raise four small children, and occasionally also two nephews. He had spent the first thirty some years of his life being trained by his own unique father, Adrahil. Shock was something Imrahil had thought himself practically immune to.

But one of his nephews had shocked him thoroughly, a moment ago. Imrahil stared at Boromir, now the Captain-General of the Armies of Gondor, and repeated, "You would like...an alligator, for Yule?"

"Preferably more than one. Perhaps several mature breeding pairs?" Boromir explained, still serious. Behind him, Captain the Lord Gendarion nodded, as if this was a normal, reasonable request.

From behind his nephew's right shoulder, Captain the Lord Tavasond added, "Actually, crocodiles might be even better. Could we get several pairs of crocodiles as well?"

Imrahil counted to ten again. This was Boromir, his sunny, jocular nephew, who had taught Imrahil's own children how to play pranks. But this was also the new Captain-General of Gondor's armies, and technically, Imrahil's superior on the field. Boromir, who had always surrounded himself with his friends when engaging in mischief, again surrounded by friends today. But these friends were clever, battle-proven warriors, and more prone to thinking subtly than was Boromir. Boromir, by himself, would tend to favor force over strategy...but Boromir was wise enough to rely on those he trusted to be subtle for him. And Boromir hardly ever trusted awry.

Still, Boromir was his nephew, as well as his Captain-General. And Gendan and Tavas were his children's ages. Imrahil would ask, should ask. Boromir hadn't stopped being his nephew just because he'd been promoted to Captain-General, after all. "This isn't for some prank, is it, my young Captains?" He inquired sternly. "These are dangerous creatures, and not to be trifled with."

"We are in most deadly earnest, Uncle. The creatures are intended for Gondor's defense, not an ingenious joke." Boromir assured him straight-faced, before chuckling. "Although, knowing me as you do, I can understand why you might ask."

Imrahil relaxed. His nephew was new to his role, but unlike his father Denethor, apparently not offended by an honest question, even one which was arguably an insult from a technical inferior. Then the Prince smiled wryly back at his beloved nephew. "You've not done something to give me cause to doubt your maturity as a Captain in years, Brom." He assured gently, "but alligators and crocodiles?"

"It may not work." Boromir replied, keeping his voice light. "I'll let you know how it turns out, if it does. But it is Gondor asking, not just your nephew."

"Dol Amroth will do its best," Imrahil promised, already wondering which unfortunate Captain he could task with acquiring the large, dangerous, unpleasant reptiles. Imrahil did not ask for more information, not because he wasn't curious, but because he understood and respected his nephew's...the new Captain-General's, need for operational security. Imrahil also did not ask if Denethor knew of this request. He and his nephews feared that the ruler of Gondor, or someone close to him, was giving information to the enemy. They were careful, all of them, not to share too many "irrelevant details" with the Steward of Gondor. Imrahil supposed they were all proving to be Adrahil's students. But enough of such matters, "And what would my nephew like for Yule, Boromir?" He jested gently, "a kraken, perhaps?"

"Eru, no." Boromir denied, grinning. "Perhaps a large quantity of fine ale, or dancing girls, or.."

Hours later, after Imrahil had departed, and several other Lords of Gondor also come and gone from Boromir's new office in the Citadel, Tavas grinned wearily at his Captain-General and good friend. "None of your other Captains have ever asked you to procure large, man-eating reptiles." He needled in a friendly manner, knowing that Boromir was as defensive of Faramir as the day was long, and would not appreciate the implication that there was favoritism involved. But the thought of any other Captain of Gondor convincing the Captain-General to go ask Dol Amroth for alligators...well, it was funny, to say the least.

Gendan chuckled, holding up a hand to forestall the argument between his more hot-headed friends. "Faramir always has to be different," commented the peace-keeper amongst their group, "But wait until you see the marsh he, my cousin, and the other rangers have created, Tavas. Its truly impressive, and alligators and crocodiles will make it even more hazardous to an enemy army, particularly once Radagast and Faramir have had a chance to talk to the great lizards."

"I'd do the same for any of my captains, if they had a viable plan, no matter how strange." Boromir chided Tavasond lightly, stretching, "Its not just that I've a soft-spot for my baby-brother. Besides, his successes in Ithilien speak for themselves, to anyone who cares to listen."

Gendan and Tavas nodded, but were otherwise quiet, helping their friend to reorder his maps and notes before departing for a night of drinking and revelry. Nothing needed to be said, between the three friends. Denethor was not listening. Alligators and crocodiles might listen to Faramir, but not his own father.


	8. Fly, Arwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A premonition in a dream sends Arwen from Lothlorien to Imladris, in time to become Aragorn's Tinuviel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during The Firebearer's Dogs, Chapter 1 (Counting by Nines). Arwen has a dream that sends her to Imladris, in time to meet Aragorn during Elladan's convalescence.

"Are you listening?" The little red-haired girl asked.

Arwen frowned. The child was human, yet present in her dream. "I am." Arwen answered, though she knew this to be very strange.

"No, you are not. If you were listening, you would have left already. You will have to travel fast. You're late." The little girl explained to Arwen, her tone somehow encouraging rather than chiding.

Arwen awoke confused, but possessed of a sudden desire to hurry. She had planned to wait for Elladan to return from his mercantile venture before leaving Lothlorien for Imladris, but suddenly, after centuries away from her childhood home, she felt the need to return. Tonight.

Her Daernaneth awaited her, near the stables. "Fly, Arwen." Galadriel bid her, the exceptionally other-worldly look in her eyes indicating that she had just come from her mirror.

"Who?" Asked Arwen, as she accepted journey bags and the hand of her aunt's retainer Faronglas to mount. "Who sent the warning?"

Galadriel's lips curved into a curiously baffled, wry, overwhelmed, smile. But a fond one. An expression she had worn at times, asking her twin grandsons the whys and wherefores of their various endeavors. "Someone who does not understand the rules." Galadriel said at last, continuing, "It would take too long to explain, daeriel. Faronglas will accompany you, but you must leave now."

In record time, Arwen and Faronglas arrived at Imladris. Then Arwen met Aragorn, and nothing was ever the same again.


	9. Are you fond of Eagles?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thorongil," Aragorn's name when he served in Gondor's army in his youth, means "Eagle of the Star." A young Finduilas asks what seems to her an obvious question, upon meeting her betrothed's new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kaylee for reading over this, all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This occurs sometime during Aragorn's sojourn as Thorongil in Gondor, before Denethor and Finduilas are married.

"Are you fond of eagles, Captain Thorongil?" The Princess asked, when her betrothed first introduced her to his new friend and fellow captain of Gondor. There was a whimsical smile on her face, as if she were some how looking into Aragorn's past, and seeing more than Thorongil, more than the man he'd been for the better part of twenty years. It was unnerving. Aragorn could see why Denethor's sisters said that his friend's fiancee, the Princess Finduilas, was a bit...odd.

"Fin, honestly, love, Thorongil can't help what he's been named." Denethor scolded his future bride, giving his friend a 'sorry, women, what can you do?' look.

Aragorn smiled, unoffended, and smoothly changed the topic. He'd learned something, spending decades living in two cultures vastly different from his own. Specifically, that it was best to just let these awkward moments pass.

Princess Finduilas waited until Denethor had been drawn into a discussion of naval tactics with her father, then winked at Thorongil. "I like eagles, too." She confessed, with a younger sister's amused, affectionate smile, before offering, "I think we should be friends."


	10. The Youngest Son's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rumil led the elves of Lothlorien to Helmsdeep during the Ring War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly I am trying to keep my DH AU roughly compliant with book canon except for certain deviations as explained, but my muse is absolutely enchanted by the idea of the elves of Lothlorien coming to the aid of the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep as they did in the movies. However, the muse is sure it was Rumil who led these elves.

"Don't make that face, Hal-nin." Rumil teased gently as one elder brother checked his armor, and the other his weapons. No matter that Rumil was an experienced soldier, had been for several thousand years. No matter that Faronglas, older than all of them, had already done the same. Haldir and Orophin had been father and mother to Rumil, as well as his brothers, for several years. It had been thousands of years ago, but once responsible for a life, always responsible for a life, Rumil supposed. That didn't mean he wouldn't keep trying to get them to relax, though. "After all, iaur-muindor, your face might freeze that way, and then you would terrify those elves who don't know you well all the more." Rumil joked lightly.

Haldir raised an eyebrow at his baby brother but didn't bother to reply aloud. If aid was to be sent to the Rohirrim, it had to be Rumil. So Naneth had said, and they did not doubt her. But Haldir didn't have to like it. And he didn't. But it was Rumil's call.

"Well, no real loss." Orophin, as always, was willing to respond to Rumil's weak jest with a cleverer one of his own. "Its well agreed I'm the fair one of the three of us, after all."

The fair one, the one who saw the future strangely strong, the one who could hear their Naneth's voice across the length and breadth of Arda. Aye, that was Orophin. And Haldir was their leader, and Celeborn's heir apparent as leader of Lothlorien's military. Both needed, in the days to come. Needed for prosaic reasons, and for reasons Rumil didn't even like to think of. But they all knew what would need to be, if Sauron gained the one ring while Naneth still wore Nenya. And Rumil feared he would hesitate...but his brothers would not. Haldir, because he met his fate without flinching, and because his faith in what their Lord and Lady believed to be true was absolute. Orophin, because he'd seen visions of those futures, where Sauron wrested control of Galadriel and her ring.

But Rumil could go to the aid of the Rohirrim, taking with him those elves who remembered and honored their auld alliance with the men of Middle Earth, and who could be spared from the defense of Lothlorien. Rumil had been the smallest of elflings when last elves and men fought side-by-side in great numbers, during the War of the Last Alliance. His and his brothers' own birth father, Emlyn, had laid down his life in the last Battle of the Last Alliance. Rumil, as a very young soldier, had dared to ride from Lothlorien to Arnor, carrying the warning of a dying messenger from the King of Gondor to the King of Arnor. Rumil had been knighted by the human King of Arnor for his valor in daring that trip, as unimpressed as his parents and his siblings had been with Rumil's behavior, at that time. But it made Rumil one of the dozen or so surviving knights of Lost Arnor. And that meant something, to Rumil.

Besides, the Lady Mithrellas had been been kind to Rumil once, and Theoden-King of Rohan was her long-son, as much as was Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. And Prince Galador and Princess Gilmith, the children of Lady Mithrellas and Prince Imrazor, had been Rumil's friends. Imrazor himself had been the friend of Amroth, who had been Rumil's King, as well as his cousin, by adoption. That history of kindness and friendship meant something, to Rumil.

"That is your gift, ion-nin. That your heart will always see your path clearly." Galadriel said to Rumil in parting. Rumil wasn't startled; his Nana often had trouble remembering that it was polite to wait for people to speak aloud before replying to their thoughts. His Adar beside his Naneth gave a long-suffering sigh, but Galadriel worried was more likely to forget the social niceties. And it was clear his Naneth was worried.

His sisters-by-law, Silwen and Eilunwen, had accompanied his mother, and both smiled mistily to see Lady Galadriel abandon dignity and throw her arms around her youngest son. Rumil returned the embrace gladly, though he wasn't surprised by it in the slightest. His Naneth wasn't normal, but all of her children knew she loved them. And not everyone's Naneth would wake a child from a nightmare with hot cider and a favorite snack already prepared, as she'd known they were likely to have a foul dream that night.

Galadriel stroked his face and stepped back, and Silwen hugged Rumil fiercely. "Be careful, sweetling." She said into his ear, and "And remember, when you are with the humans, not to use the Westron words my husband says when he is angry." Rumil nodded and promised, grateful for Silwen's love and care. She had been married to Haldir for over two thousand years, and was almost like another, more practical mother to him, as well as an oldest sister-by-law.

And then Rumil's arms were full of pale-haired, delicate Eilunwen, his brother Orophin's wife of only a few centuries, and the youngest of all of them by the better part of two centuries. "Don't get killed, or hurt." Eilunwen warned in her breathy, teasing voice. "For if you do, they'll never let you go anywhere by yourself again, and then who will uphold the honor of the youngest siblings?" Rumil laughed merrily, glad for Eilunwen's camraderie. She and Orophin were often in Greenwood or Imladris, but when Eilunwen was in Lothlorien with him, Rumil had an ally he could depend on in family squabbles.

Then Eilunwen stepped aside, and Lord Celeborn looked on his youngest son with affectionate, worried eyes. "Listen to Faronglas, as well as to your heart." Rumil's Adar told him sternly. "For Faronglas has fought against Sauron's forces twice before, and may know tricks you and yours recognize not. Tell Estel to listen to Faron, too."

Rumil nodded obediently, clasping his Adar's arm and allowing himself to be pulled into a hug by the stern war-leader of Lothlorien. Few outside the family were aware, but Lord Celeborn was a loving father, as well as a great statesman and leader of elves. All around Rumil, the elves who were to accompany him were saying farewell to their own loved ones, but Rumil sensed surprise at seeing the Lord and Lady of the Wood acting like any other parents.

Then his parents and sisters-in-law withdrew a bit, and Rumil and his brothers were alone. At the same time, they reached out to clasp one another's arms, forming a small circle of brotherly love in the lee of the wood. At the beginning of this age, they had stood together, the three of them alone against all the world. This age had brought them joys and sorrows they could never have imagined, but they remained as close as brothers could be. Carys and Emlyn's sons, the adopted sons of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, the brothers of Celebrian, and by marriage of Elrond. The cousins of Ecthelion by blood, and the uncles of Celebrian's children, which by marriage would soon include Isildur's heir, if they were lucky. Always, the three of them together. Now Rumil's heart led him to make a separate stand, as this age ended.

"Be well, Ru, muindor-dithen. Be safe. You will be far away, but our hearts shall stand together." Haldir said softly.

Rumil nodded, and Orophin nodded. Sometimes big brother, though the least loquacious of them, still said it best. They embraced one last time, and Rumil departed at the head of his command, moving at the fast, fluid, mile-eating glide that was an elven march.

Rumil was a little glad to be past the part of their departure where his brothers acted like clucking hens. He gave Faronglas a look out of the corner of his eyes, to be sure Galadriel and Celeborn's long-time retainer and Rumil's own former elflinghood minder was not going to feel the need to play the role of all-knowing elder on this particular trip.

Faronglas grinned back at Rumil good-humoredly. "No, my young Lord, I long ago realized you had more or less learned to lace your own tunics."

Rumil rolled his eyes, but was grateful to know that Faronglas was here, to correct him if he made a mistake, or to tell him if Faron had a suggestion. But that Faronglas would back off and let Rumil lead, otherwise. And then Rumil paid attention to leading his column, for if Orophin's and his Naneth's visions were true, time was very short, indeed.

Pounding hooves drew Rumil's attention, but the horn calling a friend made the column relax, and continue at its best pace.

It was Orophin, and Galadriel's retainer Sendoron mounted with him. Orophin's eyes were glazed, a vision just retreating. "Listen when Estel calls out to you, my brother, please." Orophin pleaded with Rumil in Nandorin, the language of their earliest memories.

"I always listen to our nephews. Why wouldn't I listen to Estel?" Rumil asked, bemused. He was the least likely of any of him or his brothers to take someone less seriously, just because that person was human and younger.

"We'll listen, Orophin-lad. Don't worry." Faronglas soothed without pausing. Rumil caught his brother's eyes, and nodded firmly. Even Haldir didn't ignore Orophin, when he spoke from a vision.

Orophin nodded back, relieved, and then dismounted. He and Sendoron waited gravely until the column was out of sight, while Orophin's vision-sickness gradually receded. "Be well, baby brother." Orophin whispered one last time, before returning home. For this was a youngest son's gambit, and he and Haldir and the rest of their family would have to wait, and hope.


	11. Yuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arwen's blade first tasted blood nearly three thousand years before her husband was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set when Arwen is young, probably around T.A. 300, when she is about 90 years old.

Arwen crouched, waiting. Waiting. Now. She flew from concealment, using moves she had practiced thousands of times but never used in earnest, never before.

It was enough. The light in the bandit’s eyes went out, and he collapsed. Arwen pulled her sword free, and looked around.

Elrohir held up his hands, “Well-fought, muinthel-laes. The one you dispatched was the last.”

Adrenaline fading, Arwen looked around more carefully. Their party was intact, unharmed. She turned back to the man she had killed. Second born, but kin and kindred none the less. All the more so, to a child of Elrond Peredhel. A wave of sorrow overtook her, and it was just too much.

“Clean your blade.” Elladan prompted gently from beside her.

Arwen shook her head, and looked to her sword. It was covered in blood and something thicker, more viscous. “Yuck.” Arwen commented, heart-felt. It wasn’t the grossness; it was the fact of the death she had dealt. But the twins seemed to understand.

“It is yuck.” Elladan agreed gently, “Wipe it on the grass, like so.” Arwen did so, feeling clumsy, awkward, sick.

“It will come clean, muinthel-nin.” Belemir comforted, suddenly beside her. “It will be well, I promise. Not now, but soon.” He squeezed her hand. Arwen nodded woodenly.

That night, she put her bedroll beside Belemir’s, and he held her while she cried. But she would love her brothers, all three, forever, for helping her make it through that moment, that afternoon, through til that night, when no one but her own closest brother knew she had wept. Not because she was afraid to show weakness, but because that was what she would have wanted, what she did want. To hold herself together, until then. And the twins and Belemir, Valar bless them, knew that because they knew her, and helped her.

Arwen never met their equal, until Estel. And Estel’s sons, Faramir and Eldarion, who were her sons as well. Both her sons, by bonds of love, though only Eldarion was hers by blood.


	12. Realizations, Regrets, and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond's children return to Imladris after Thorongil's long sojourn in Gondor, and after Arwen's betrothal to Aragorn in Lothlorien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kaylee for reading this over, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> A/N: This is set in T.A. 2986, differing from the canon time line for when Aragorn and Arwen were betrothed in Lothlorien and when Aragorn (as Thorongil) left Gondor the first time, which I think was in 2980.

Arwen Undomiel sighed in frustration. She was glad that her twin brothers had decided to support her and Aragorn in their love for one another, really she was...but she'd always found competing with the twins for anyone's attention to be difficult. Particularly so once Belemir had died. Now that Elrohir and Elladan were determined to make up for decades of lost time with their muindor-laes, what was his poor future bride to do? Gently, teasingly, softly, Arwen began sending pictures to Aragorn's mind...suggestions of what they could be doing in the secluded grotto where she awaited him. To her annoyance, her beloved's mind was entirely focused on....dirt, and plants, and then chess pieces. Arwen sighed, and went to go deal with this problem.

"Estel-nin, not like that, like this." Elladan teased gently, his hands cupping around Aragorn's as they planted Athelas together in the gardens of the last homely house.

Aragorn blinked for a moment. He had been Thorongil for years; it was strange to be called Estel. Stranger yet to have his brothers by his side, again. Strange, but good.

"Your mind is a thousand miles away, muindor-laes." Elrohir commented gently, "Come, let's get you cleaned up. I'm looking forward to playing chess with you, again."

The twins smiled at Aragorn, and he smiled back, though he would rather have been with Arwen. They were to have met half an hour ago, but he had always had a hard time telling his elder brothers "no."

Elrond's children had realized that they must stick together, or they would surely fall apart. The twins now whole-heartedly regretted how much pain they had caused Arwen and Estel by their lukewarm reception of their younger sister's love of their foster-brother, and their avoidance of Estel. The twins, with all of their considerable energy and creativity, had spent the last year or so trying to make it up to their younger sibling and foster-sib. Arwen and Aragorn had somehow managed to become engaged, despite this "help," during their months long stay in Lothlorien.

But the twins still felt guilty.

Elladan had realized how much he had hurt Estel when Adrahil wrote him, several years ago.

Elrohir had realized more recently, when his friend and mentor Haldir and his wife Silwen lectured him.

Together, Elrond's eldest sons had promised that they would somehow make it up to their younger siblings.

So the twins, for the past year, had been trying to spend all of their time with the happy couple, or at least with Estel. In Lothlorien, Galadriel and Celeborn, as well as Haldir, Silwen, Orophin, Eilunwen, and Rumil, had done their best to distract the twins as much as possible. Elrond's children had only been back at Imladris for half a day, and Lord Elrond was still away, visiting a human settlement where there had been an outbreak of the plague.

Now that they were home in Imladris, though...well, Elrond was still uncomfortable with the situation. And the twins were accustomed to having Estel to themselves, here. And so far as Arwen was concerned, that was just too bad.

Arwen strode into Aragorn's sitting room, where he was playing chess against both twins. "You." She said to Elrohir, "And you." To Elladan. "We are grateful for your blessing. Now go bless us somewhere else."

The twins, half-laughing, half-apologetic, did so.

Aragorn's breath caught in his chest, and he smiled gently at his incredible elven lady. His Tinuviel, his Undomiel. "You are breathtaking when you are commanding." He murmured softly. Then her lips met his, and he lost the power of speech.

That evening just before dinner, Elrond returned with Erestor and Glorfindel at his sides. The twins came to greet them, distracting their father from their sister's and foster-brother's whereabouts for crucial minutes.

Arwen and Aragorn arrived in due time, their attire and appearance entirely unexceptionable, except for the flush in their cheeks.

Elrond's heart leaped in joy to see them...but he was a protective Adar, and so he sighed, as well. And even gave his just returned youngest foster-son a reproving glare.

Elladan bravely poked his father in the chest with his index finger. "Consider it an unofficial betrothal, Ada. For my peace of mind, and Elrohir's."

"You two were worried about your sister's virtue? You two?" Glorfindel asked, incredulous.

Melpomaen smiled, "Just because the twins are the twins, doesn't mean they don't act like normal ellyn from time to time."

Elrohir sighed, "Thank you, Mel. I don't know what we'd do without a suave, supportive advisor like you to give us such a stellar,"

"But honest," Elladan added with a grin.

"Reputation." the twins finished together.

Glorfindel winced. He hated it when his Lieutenants spoke in tandem.

Elrond hadn't even noticed. "Ion-nin, iel-nin," he greeted his daughter and her love, his foster-son. "Welcome home."


	13. He's Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Faramir uses his powers unwisely.

Healer Del looked from the pail of blackberries, to the poison-ivy and insect bite covered soldiers, and at last to the irritated child he'd just had to treat for poison ivy and bee stings.

"So," Del started, "You went to pick blackberries, despite knowing the hazards of that particular bramble, because..."

The shame-faced sergeant explained, "Because they're Lady Finduilas' favorite, and this is the end of the season. That bramble is the only place where there are any berries left."

"Unbelievable." Del muttered, "Simply unbelievable. If Faramir had an allergy to bee stings, he'd be dead. No question. He still is one very sick little boy, and you idiots aren't too well off, either. Your private IS allergic to bees, and you're just lucky he didn't get stung."

The sergeant winced, and the private protested vociferously, "But Lord Faramir said..."

Del stopped listening at that point. He didn't care what Faramir had said. He waited for the soldier to stop talking, and then responded in his quiet but intent voice, "It doesn't matter to me what Lord Faramir said; it won't matter to your captain, and it shouldn't have mattered to the two of you, either. Look at him," Del pointed to Faramir, who was angelically sleeping, "He's four years old. Four."

The sergeant sighed, "He was very eloquent."

"You've both been treated; get out of my hall." Del ordered, adding, "Your Captain is waiting for you."

Del waited for them to leave, and then contemplated the child on the bed. He wished he could just turn the good-hearted but dangerously capable and charming little imp over to his father. Faramir's mother was sick, but his father was healthy enough...in body. Unfortunately the situation was as it was, and the only one who really looked out after this child was...

"He's a clever kit, but he is SUCH an idiot." A frustrated and affectionate but still carefully modulated voice noted from just behind Del.

"I know, Lord Boromir." Del agreed with the nine year old heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, "I know."

"Mama said to spank him, when he's well. But he seems too miserable now..." Boromir noted sadly, stroking the sleeping Faramir's red-gold hair.

"We'll see how he's doing tomorrow afternoon." Del said gently, placing a supportive hand on Boromir's shoulder. Such strong shoulders, for a nine year old. Such slender and young shoulders, to be his brother's keeper.


	14. A Bit of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teenaged Faramir and his friend decide to have a bit of fun, near the end of their time as academy trainees.

"'Twas just a bit of fun," Boromir repeated incredulously as he pulled on his friend Gendarion's spare leggings, torn between embarrassment, anger, and...well, laughter.

"'Twas just a bit of fun indeed. What were they thinking?!?" The twenty year old Lord Steward's heir demanded of his friend and fellow officer, "Just because their training exercise is over, doesn't mean they can get away with something like this!"

Gendarion bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Well, the sight of you coming downstairs in your...ah, friend's chemise, after they removed your clothes from her room...it was rather funny. And it was just us still here at that point, waiting for you, so no one else saw. But no, you really can't let them get away with it."

Gendarion had been surprised that sixteen year old Dervorin and fifteen year old Faramir had elected to stay up in the common room of the inn, waiting with Boromir's friends for Boromir's return from the bedroom of a pretty barmaid, rather than retiring at a decent hour to sleep as Faramir, at least, usually would. But even Boromir's friends had had to agree that the sight of their very young Captain, naked but for a lacy garment slung across his muscular waist, had been well worth waiting for.

"I'm going to kill my...clever little fox of a brother, especially if he's still laughing like a hyena when we get downstairs." Boromir promised darkly, putting on Gendarion's spare tunic.

"I'll deal with my cousin Dev," Gendarion offered, "It was probably his idea, anyway."

Boromir growled, agreeing, "My brother is never so much of a pain as when he is with your little cousin. But..." Boromir sighed, and wrestled his temper under control, "It was funny, and...I am glad that they are friends, Gendan, even with the trouble Dev lures Fara into, as I know Dev will always have his back." Boromir straightened his borrowed clothing and checked his appearance in the old, dingy mirror of the small room. "But I am going to have to see that they both learn a lesson...this just isn't an acceptable way for trainees to treat officers."

Gendarion nodded, and the two assumed very somber, grim expressions and walked down the stairs. Their friends and fellow officers Tavisond and Galdoron suppressed careful grins as Faramir and Dervorin paled.

"It was my idea," Faramir and Dervorin said at the same time.

Boromir couldn't completely hide a smile, though he kept himself from laughing. "I'm sure it was." He told both of them, "And I'm sure you both know," Boromir lectured, his smile disappearing, "that it was disgraceful behavior from two young men who expect to soon become soldiers of Gondor."

Faramir blushed, and Boromir knew that his baby brother was ashamed of himself, because he knew Faramir. Dervorin didn't blush, and didn't seem particularly sorry, but Boromir knew that he had trouble reading Dev...pretty much everyone did, except Faramir.

"It...it was just a bit of fun, Brom." Faramir said quietly, "I'm sorry, I know we shouldn't have. Um, here's your clothes, and boots, and purse, back."

"No, you must certainly shouldn't have." Boromir lectured the two of them sternly, walking towards Faramir as Tavisond collected his belongings from Boromir's uncharacteristically naughty younger brother.

As Boromir's pinching, borrowed boots made a "thwik" sound on the sticky tavern floor, a clever idea occurred to him. Boromir smiled, a smile that Faramir knew to be wary of, and patted his younger brother on the shoulder. "However, I am not so full of myself that I cannot take 'a bit of fun' in good part, Faramir. The punishment for this level of disrespect to a senior officer from a trainee would normally be a birching in full view of your classmates, and promising lads have been dismissed for less."

Faramir swallowed, and nodded. Dervorin looked abashed as well, but Boromir thought it likely Dev was just pretending to feel ashamed and penitent because he thought that he should. Besides, Boromir would never dismiss a trainee for a prank that had only been embarrassing and not dangerous, not unless forced to it by political necessity. And no one even knew of this one, save Boromir and his closest friends.

Boromir squeezed his brother's shoulder reassuringly, "However, since as of yesterday our training mission was officially over...I am going to deal with this as Faramir's elder brother, rather than Faramir's senior officer." He ruffled Faramir's hair, "Come, little idiot." Boromir commanded to his brother, then, "You too, menace." He amended, including Dervorin.

Faramir and Dervorin reluctantly followed Boromir to his room. Gendarion followed behind them, smacking his younger cousin Dervorin's head lightly, "Foolish imp."

Dervorin yelped, though it had not been a hard blow. "Oww. No hitting."

Gendarion rolled his eyes, and Boromir chuckled, waiting for the door to close, before sobering and beginning to lecture again. "After training was officially over or not, this was not acceptable, Fara, Dev."

Faramir swallowed nervously, wishing he'd never let Lothiriel and Amrothos convince him that humiliating his older brother and calling attention to Boromir's scandalous habits would be a good idea. "We...we know, Boromir. We're sorry. Ah..."

"I'm not going to tell Adar," Boromir reassured his brother, "Or even the academy commandant."

Dev made a quiet noise, and Boromir and Gendarion exchanged a look. Boromir nodded, and then added, "And Lord Tyorvond your uncle need not be informed, either, Dervorin."

Dervorin didn't relax visibly, but Faramir did. Boromir gave the two miscreants a half-sympathetic grin, despite their outrageous offense against him, "Now. For the first part of your punishment - leggings down, both of you, and over the table."

Faramir and Dervorin exchanged a quick look but didn't hesitate to obey.

Boromir patted his brother's white bottom affectionately,half-regretful for the paddling he was about to deliver, and half-feeling that it was well-earned, this time, "'Twill be an unpleasant ride for you tomorrow, Fara." Boromir warned, "Remember this, the next time that you are minded to express your disapproval of my womanizing in such an inappropriate fashion."

With that, Boromir brought a thin wooden paddle down firmly on his brother's bottom, aware of Gendarion delivering a like lesson with a large wooden spoon to Dervorin just a few feet away. Dervorin yelped and danced, and Gendarion had to reprimand him to keep still.

Faramir held as still as he could, an indrawn breath at Boromir's first statement his only reaction beyond wincing, and clenching and unclenching his leg muscles as Boromir snapped the paddle down on his backside a handful of times.

Boromir paused after Faramir's bottom had reached a rosy pink shade, and held up a hand for Gendarion to stop, as well.

"Ah?" Faramir gasped in surprise to have the paddling cut short.

Boromir grinned, taking a seat on the bed and pulling his baby brother over his lap. Faramir groaned, "Brom, I'm not...I'm not a child."

Smacking his brother's already heated bottom soundly with his calloused hand, Boromir advised, "Then don't act like one."

Faramir blushed, and tried to keep himself still and quiet. Soon enough, despite his best efforts, Faramir was yelping and squirming, embarrassed to be wriggling from the pain of a child's punishment.

Boromir kept a careful watch on Faramir's reactions. When his younger brother began showing his discomfort, he ruffled Faramir's hair comfortingly with one hand, though he didn't stop smacking Faramir's reddening bottom. "I know it hurts, kit. 'Tis allright to call out, it doesn't make you weak. And I don't mean to let you off lightly this time. I was amused by your funny little joke, baby brother, but stealing your brother's- and senior officer's- clothing to 'have a bit of fun,' or to teach him a lesson, whatever you were about, is just not acceptable."

"Oww! Sorry!" Faramir yelped, tears in his eyes. Taking pity on his brother, Boromir ended the spanking with a last firm swat to each of Faramir's sit spots, and pulled Faramir carefully into his lap.

"Little idiot." Boromir said with affection still leavened with outrage. "Whatever were you thinking?" Lifting Faramir's chin gently with one hand and keeping his other arm wrapped around his brother's thin but muscular shoulders, Boromir's grey-green met Faramir's grey eyes, and waited.

Faramir, feeling much less mature than he had when he and his younger cousins and Dervorin had hatched this clever plan, sniffled and explained, "Well, it seems...disrespectful, I guess. The way you sleep around with so many different women...someone is bound to get mad about it someday, too."

Boromir shook his head and tugged on a lock of Faramir's hair, "You're my baby brother, Fara, and my headache of a trainee for the previous week, not my father. What I do with attractive and willing women in my free time is my affair, and no concern of yours."

Despite his burning bottom, Faramir protested, unhappy and worried, "But I don't understand...and it doesn't seem honorable!"

Boromir didn't take offense; 'twas an honest question, honestly asked. "I'm not always perfect, Fara." He told his younger brother gently, "But I I have no marriage pre-contract with anyone, and I don't force anyone into my bed, nor do I sleep with married women. Father's ignoring it, Uncle Imrahil says he thinks I'm acting like an idiot but concedes that I am an adult, and that I could be an even bigger idiot."

Faramir sniffled again, looking up uncertainly, "Uncle Imrahil didn't say that."

Boromir had to chuckle, "Well, he used bigger words. But that was about the gist of it. Still, it's not honorable to steal one's big brother's clothing, and embarrass and upset the kind...friend, whose chemise he had to borrow, either, is it?"

Faramir blushed, "No, I....guess I wasn't thinking of that. Well, I was thinking that you deserved it," Faramir amended cheekily, "But you're right, I owe your friend an apology."

Boromir huffed a laugh, "Cheeky brat. From now on keep your commentary on my social life verbal and private, and I'll not object overmuch if it's impolite or none of your business. Deal?"

Faramir nodded, "Deal." Faramir leaned against his brother for a moment more, before getting up with a hand from Boromir and righting his clothing. "What's the rest of our punishment?" Faramir asked, resigned but not truly worried or upset. Boromir might have a sometimes lamentable sense of humor, but Faramir had confidence he would never be harmed by his brother.

Boromir put one hand on Faramir's shoulder, and one on the shoulder of the red-eyed Dervorin, "Your punishment and your idiot friend's for your affront against me and my friend shall be scrubbing the tavern floor first thing tomorrow morning, so that my friend doesn't have to. It's normally her duty, but two fine lads who have time and energy to plan such a funny prank undoubtedly have the energy to scrub a floor before we leave tomorrow morning."

"I hate scrubbing floors." Dervorin objected perfunctorily. Boromir shook his head at the teenager and Gendarion smacked his undoubtedly sore bottom. Dev jumped and yelped indignantly, then apologized.

Boromir shook his head as his good friend led Dervorin away. "When any sensible man would stay silent, why is it that Dev feels the need to speak?"

Faramir shrugged, looking to his brother with a rueful half-grin, "I don't know. Sometimes he does it to distract attention from me. Maybe he's just an idiot tonight. I should go and see.."

"Nay." Boromir didn't let Faramir finish saying whatever he'd been planning to do, "You can sleep here. Tomorrow's soon enough to deal with arrangements for leaving - and I don't mind staying until mid-morning so that you and Dev can take a bath after scrubbing that floor."

Faramir nodded gratefully, and decided not to complain that Boromir's new friend wasn't the most meticulous of floor scrubbers.

"I can't believe that you're still playing juvenile pranks, and yet Adar is planning to send you to Ithilien next year." Boromir complained to the darkness as they lay in bed.

Faramir stiffened in excitement from his spot beside his brother. Pulling himself onto his elbows (as sleeping on his back just wasn't in the picture tonight), Faramir tried to control his happy anticipation as he asked, "Father has said yes, then?"

"He hasn't, yet. But he's going to. He's proud of you, of course he is. And I'm proud of you, too. But...it's so far away, Fara. We'll see a lot less of you." Boromir complained, one hand reaching out in the night to squeeze his brother's shoulder.

Faramir realized that part of the reason Boromir had wanted him close, this night, despite being the victim of their rather clever prank, was because his brother was going to miss him, a lot. The distance and the seeing less of one another would be a good thing, so far as Lord Denethor was concerned. But Faramir would miss his brother, too. "I'll miss you, but it's what I want. And I think I'll be good at it."

Boromir sighed, "I think you'll be good at it, too. Now get some sleep - you have a busy morning ahead of you."

Faramir murmured something quiet but uncomplimentary about his brother's sanitary habits, and Boromir lazily smacked his brother's blanket-clad bottom.

"Ouch!" Faramir objected, surprised.

"Go to sleep, and if any of this...'bit of fun' was an attempt to push me away so that I won't miss you after you go to join the rangers..." Boromir rolled on his side to look his brother in the eyes, "then it was stupid, and it would never work, and if you ever do anything similar again, I'm going to tell Uncle Imrahil that your secret desire is to be a sailor."

Faramir's jaw dropped, "Then I'd have to go through the academy at Dol Amroth, and I wouldn't be done with school for...oh."

"Another four years, or maybe three considering that it's you." Boromir said with smug satisfaction, "time for you to grow up a little more. Might be for the best, really." If Denethor would let his younger brother-by-law poach his second son for the navy, which was not a sure bet. "The only thing that stops me, Fara, is that I know you prefer Ithilien to the sea. So don't do anything like try to push me away, ok?"

Faramir nodded solemnly, reaching out a hand to clasp his brother's. "It wasn't that, at least I don't think it was. It really only was meant to be a bit of fun."

Rolling his eyes, Boromir jested, "We've really got to talk about your idea of 'a bit of fun,' kit. But some other day. For now, go to sleep."


	15. Favors, Ships, and Pigeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's spymaster amongst the Northern Dunedain of Lost Arnor, Captain Ethiron, is trying to do Melpomaen a favor. Sort of. Or maybe extort him....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set when Aragorn is serving in Rohan and Gondor as Thorongil, so sometime before 2985 (for the DH AU, in canon it would be before 2980). Vague reference is made to several different chapters within "The Firebearer's Dogs."

Melpomaen frowned at Lord Glorfindel's handwriting. It was almost spring, and Lord Elrond had asked all of his heads of staff to prepare requisition lists, for the items they felt they needed for the next year. Sighing and rubbing his tired eyes, Melpomaen decided that his adopted father's grandfather, the Lord Captain of Imladris' guard, must be asking for 100 spears, rather than 100 shears. Perhaps he should ask, though. Perhaps Daerada Glor was thinking about teaching village shepherds how to be dangerous with the equipment that they had on hand...it wasn't like he hadn't done similar things in the past.

A quiet whoosh caused Melpomaen to look up and smile, even though he knew trouble had just entered his office.

"Hello, Ethiron." Melpomaen greeted the young spymaster of the Dunedain of Lost Arnor. "Please, have a seat. To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my office, when I believe you are meant to be amusing Lord Glorfindel with how much you have improved your swordplay since your last visit?"

Ethiron winced, "Ah, I think I'll pass on sitting, thanks all the same, Mel."

Melpomaen gave Estel's gwador a sympathetic look, recalling that the elder elves had been rather upset by some of Ethiron's recent decisions. More than Estel, Ethiron liked to push the edge of what was possible or what was permitted. Worrying over Estel as they all were, with him having been gone for so many years in Rohan and Gondor, even the generally easy-going twins probably wouldn't have found all of Ethiron's recent adventures humorous.

Ethiron gave Melpomaen a wry grin, "Himself's extended world tour is making one thing and another more challenging. But I actually came to do you a favor."

Melpomaen raised a politely skeptical eyebrow at that. He was fond of all of Estel's friends amongst the rangers, particularly Ethiron and Estel's cousin Halbarad, but Mel also knew Ethiron rather well. And he'd never come out ahead in any dealing he'd ever had with Ethiron. Oh, he'd never come out badly; but Ethiron was trouble. Good-natured, clever, amusing trouble, but trouble nonetheless. And Melpomaen knew trouble well; in fact, his gwedyr had been described as trouble incarnate.

Ethiron didn't even notice Melpomaen's skepticism, or at least didn't let on that he did. Instead, he gave Melpomaen an intent look, and said, "The younger Prince of Dol Amroth is trying to ask you for ship designs. Something about a naval experiment early in the Third Age by a Mistress Solora, or Solorara."

Melpomaen froze. "Why..would you say that?" He managed, though his mouth no longer felt connected to his mind. He hadn't heard that name...in eons.

Ethiron gave Melpomaen a concerned look, but didn't hesitate to sort through the correspondence on Mel's desk and pull out Adrahil's latest missive on trade, pointing to a code that Melpomaen had missed. Melpomaen knew the history of Arda backwards and forwards, but he was not the code breaker that Elladan was. He lacked the patience for such games, although he enjoyed cross-word puzzles and trivia games and word games, and so Elladan always said that Melpomaen should like code-breaking.

Melpomaen and the twins had worked with the Dunedain to develop the codes used to keep track of who was related to who, but that was different, to Mel's mind. This...this encoding of letters that neither Melpomaen nor Elladan were even certain to see...that was something else. Although Melpomaen did suppose that he always tried his best to take a look at Adrahil's letters when they came, even now that their days as Gandalf's agents were over. Melpomaen jerked his attention back to Ethiron.

"Did I...did I say something wrong, Melpomaen?" Ethiron asked gently, worried by the haunted look in his friend's eyes. Melpomaen had always been kind and patient, teaching Ethiron history and writing. And Ethiron hadn't been an easy pupil. When Aragorn, Dirhael, and Lord Elrond's family first got the bright idea to make Ethiron into Spy Master, Ethiron had been functionally illiterate, or as near to that as one could be and be a ranger.

"It is..." Melpomaen struggled, not liking to lie. "Mistress Solara was my mother. Her ships, and they were more hers than my father's, were prized in Lindon and Mithlond for riding the most surely upon the sea. Until the night when she took a prototype out, intending to see how it rode out a storm. She never returned, and we found wreckage, debris, and other bodies from the crew on the shore, the next morn."

As he spoke, Melpomaen had been sorting through files on his bookshelf. On a whim, upon reading in Adrahil's letters that his eldest daughter Ivriniel was studying to be a shipwright, Melpomaen had retrieved the drawings and notes that his mother had left, on that experimental design. With love and grief he had dusted them off, reading his mother's calculations and notes in her fine, graceful handwriting.

"Blast. I'm sorry, Mel." Ethiron offered sincerely. "I feel bad even extorting you now."

Melpomaen couldn't help an appalled chuckle. "By all means, proceed, Ethiron. With my gwedyr gone I don't think I've faced an attempted extortion in at least a month."

Ethiron grinned, and offered, "I won't mention to anyone that Prince Adrahil is sending you coded messages, if you don't mention that I'm planning to go back to Gondor through Rhun, this Spring."

Shaking his head, and suppressing the desire to bang it against his desk Melpomaen refused, "Ethiron, no one knows why Adrahil does anything. We've found other codes in his letters, asking to start a long-distance chess game, for instance. And if you're planning to go through Rhun, you should talk to the twins, at least." Melpomaen's preference would have been to tell his father and Lord Elrond the whole sordid history of why Adrahil might send him and Elladan coded messages, but Melpomaen understood that it could create a breach between the elven realms and the wizard Mithrandir, at a time when such a breach would be undesirable at best and disastrous at worst.

Leaning back and regarding Melpomaen thoughtfully, Ethiron said, "Well, the twins are the most likely to think its a good idea to give Aragorn more support, whether he says he needs or not. And they're still feeling guilty for being such prats about the Arwen thing..." Ethiron brightened, "I bet I could convince Elladan to give me more explosives."

Repressing a shudder, for well he knew how his younger gwador adored things that went "boom," Melpomaen nodded encouragingly, "Yes, I think it would be best from a number of perspectives to discuss such a venture with the twins." That way, the twins would know where to find Ethiron and his men if something went wrong, if nothing else.

Crashing sounds emanated from down the hallway, and Ethiron went from happy to almost frantic. "Ah," He asked Melpomaen uncertainly, "Can I hide in the spy hole in your office? I think Lord Glorfindel is going to kill me."

As the sounds of cursing in Quendya came closer, Melpomaen eyed Ethiron with wide-eyed amazement, "What did you do?" Melpomaen asked.

Ethiron had to grin again, despite approaching threats to make it so that he didn't sit in comfort for the rest of his visit to Imladris. "I thought long and hard about why it is that that Lord Glorfindel avoids the messenger pigeons...and then I took about twenty of them, and left them in his chambers."

Melpomaen choked on a laugh, and ushered Aragorn's gwador into his hidden closet. Glorfindel's well-hidden dislike, bordering on irrational fear, of pigeons, was a well-kept secret. It was just lucky for Ethiron that Melpomaen thought it wise to give his great-grandfather time to calm down before dealing with the perpetrator of such a clever prank.

By that evening, Glorfindel had caught up with Ethiron. During dinner, the Dunedain spymaster was squirming uncomfortably even on his cushioned chair.

"Ethiron has volunteered to learn how to care for Tauriel's messenger birds." Glorfindel observed darkly after Ethiron excused himself almost indecently early from the dinner table.

Melpomaen quickly looked down to his plate to hide a grin. Lord Elrond didn't bother. With a rare, teasing smile on his face, he leaned closer to Glorfindel and said, "You know, Glor, it never fails to amuse me that our great balrog-slayer is afraid of pigeons."

Erestor, also, was looking down at his plate. At one point, his eyes met Melpomaen's, and the two lost their composure, laughing merrily as Glorfindel glared at both of them and Elrond.

"I'm not scared of them!" Glorfindel objected loudly, now glad that this dinner had been in Elrond's private chambers, "I just think they're not natural! They'll hide, perfectly motionless in the leaves or the shrubbery, and then...fwoof!" The balrog-slayer exclaimed, opening his arms wide, "they fly right up into your face! It's not normal, I tell you."

Now laughing as well, Elrond suggested, "But you admire stealth and concealment in your soldiers. Surely you should approve of our pigeons' endeavors to that affect..."

Glorfindel gave them one last glare, and then gave it up and joined the laughter. "All right, it may be silly of me." He agreed, "But we all have these little things that give us the heebie-jeebies, even though they shouldn't."

"Umm-hmm." Erestor teasingly agreed, "Like Elladan or Elrohir saying, 'I have a great idea.'"

Elrond shuddered, "No, that's just prudent, to become worried then. And Melpomaen's fear of walking on ice just before first thaw is prudent as well."

Melpomaen looked up at the sound of his name, blushing to realize that he'd lost track of the conversation.

His father looked at him tenderly as Elrond and Glorfindel shared a look of concern. "What is on your mind tonight, ion-nin?" Erestor asked gently, "At times you have seemed a thousand miles away."

"My apologies, Adar, Uncle Elrond, Daerada." Melpomaen offered sincerely, a slight hint of old sorrow in his voice, "It occurred to me today that the books on ship design Prince Adrahil asked about last year...my mother's work, it was similar."

Erestor reached across the table to squeeze his son's hand supportively. "So it was. If you're willing to share it with our favorite merchant Prince, perhaps we should have it copied, and a copy sent to him."

"I'll..I'll keep the copy." Melpomaen said firmly, glad that his father had immediately deemed it worth a scribe's effort to copy such documents, rather than just sending them.

Erestor frowned, "Are you sure, ion-nin? I know you have few documents in your mother's hand."

Melpomaen nodded, "I am sure. I will ask for them back once Princess Ivriniel and the other shipwrights are done, but...a copy of something like that is rarely ever just as good. Dol Amroth provides Gondor's navy. And Gondor's navy supports Gondor's army." And they all knew who was currently fighting for Gondor's army. It was important to all of them that their Estel have every advantage, fighting for the land that they hoped would someday be his.

Lord Elrond reached out to take Melpomaen's other hand, in thanks. "Vorondanyar, the most faithful, all three of you." Elrond praised softly, his gray eyes shining, and then twinkling as he added, "So long as we don't ask Glorfindel to face down a pigeon!"


	16. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Ranger Captain Faramir is lucky to still have a best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set when Faramir is in his early twenties, and a young Captain of the Ithilien Rangers.

There was blood everywhere. Faramir had not known that the human body could contain so very much of it. That Dev's body could contain so very much of it.

And yet, Sayyida was calm and steady as she washed the wounds enough to bind and stitch them. The kind of calm that inspired Faramir to find, and hold onto, some frozen calm of his own.

"What can I do...to help?" He managed.

Sayyida's hands never stopped, and her lovely, sensual voice stayed calm, reassuring, almost flirting as she lilted words that would will a dead man back to life. In the same tone, she commanded, "Keep Devyango upright, Faran. So that he doesn't drown in his own blood."

"I brought him here. He'd be safe in... the home town of his parents, if not for me." Faramir murmured, pulling Dervorin up gently, ever so gently.

Dev coughed, and pinched Faramir's arm. "Stupid. Where....you go, I go."

At that sign of awareness returning, Faramir felt like an oliphaunt had gotten up off of his chest. He was relieved enough, he could have kissed Dervorin.

Sayyida did kiss Dervorin.

An hour or so later, after his friend was settled in Sayyida's luxurious bed, well-medicated, and soundly asleep, Faramir thought to wonder...how was it, that Sayyida the business woman, the merchant's friend who arranged caravans with cargos and men and women looking for work with merchants looking to employ...knew how to care for a man who had come so near to death?

It was, Faramir decided as he looked at Sayyida's haunted expression as she gazed upon the sleeping Dervorin, a question he would never ask her.

"You're lucky to have a friend like him." Sayyida told Faramir, "As lucky as he is to have you, who always go after him. Who would have thought that on a simple trip to sell drugs, he would have encountered slavers? The orcs are usually such good customers..."

It was a good question, and one that Faramir meant to ask Dervorin, when he was better. But for now, "I'm lucky that I brought him to you, and that you knew what to do." Faramir told one of their oldest contacts. Even she believed them to be mere merchants, friends since childhood. The latter was true.

Sayyida shrugged elegantly, "Life is never boring when you and Dev are about. And it is not as if you have never done me favors, even dangerous ones." Her lovely dark eyes gleamed, and Faramir read in them that he and Dervorin reminded Sayyida of the person she had once wanted to be, long ago as a young girl in Umbar.

A moment later, after another covert glance at the slumbering Dervorin, Sayyida offered, "Faran, I do know someone who will help you get the rescued children out of town, quietly and safely. All the way to your Easterling friend, or the Dol Amroth escaped slave network."

Faramir gave her a slightly cynical smile, "And how much will it cost me?"

Sayyida smiled coyly back, and the two began to bargain. Faramir knew she'd help, and Sayyida knew she'd help, but the dance allowed everyone to believe that they were still who they thought they should be, and not who they wanted to be.

Several hours later, Faramir sat by Dervorin's side, writing a coded letter to his second-in-command in Ithilien, explaining that he would be later than he had expected, but that all was otherwise well. Tapping his quill against his cheek in thought, Faramir wondered how best to convey, 'under no circumstances should anyone mention to Captain Boromir that I'm not in Ithilien,' and gave it up as a bad job.

Dervorin snored, and Faramir told him quietly, "I do get into more trouble with you about, even if it's not your fault." Faramir stood up and stretched, his bottom tingling as he remembered Boromir's reaction to the last time Faramir joined in one of Dev's trips to Harad, and it went so badly sour. "Oh, it's not your fault." Faramir reassured his sleeping friend, "But I think we may well be in trouble again."


	17. Promises 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir sends one of his lieutenants to Dol Amroth for a rest, and to see one of 'those' healers. The kind who deal with injuries that are more than physical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set when Faramir is in his mid twenties, and a young Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. It references events in several previous chapters, including "The Malaise," and probably occurs a couple of years after the prior chapter, "Lucky." I have jotted down notes for a direct sequel or several to this chapter, but I'm not sure when I'll get around to writing them.

"Ah, my young Lord, there you are." Prince Imrahil observed equably.

Dervorin blinked. He wasn't technically a lord of Gondor, since his father Morvirin had been at attainted for treason. Petty treason, embezzlement from the Lord Steward, but treason nonetheless.

"Prince Imrahil?" He answered questioningly, getting up from the table he'd claimed in the sunny archives of Dol Amroth's citadel. Dervorin was not quite so much a bookworm as his best friend Faramir, but Dol Amroth's collection of scrolls and volumes in the Southron tongue was unparalleled in all of Gondor. And, although Imrahil was unaware of it, Dervorin and Faramir ran a little spy ring, in Harad. So it was good for Dervorin to have a chance to practice his written Southron, and read more of the classics in the language. Much more useful, in Dervorin's opinion, than seeing the mind-healer Faramir had sent him here for. Dev felt guilty enough to be getting a break from the rangers, when so many had died, and the others were all working hard. Or at least on leave due to real injuries.

"Lieutenant," Imrahil nodded towards him, at least using a title that Dervorin had earned himself, and was more comfortable with, "You may leave your research as it is. I will put up a sign, and no one will disturb it. But you, my dear young man, are due at the healers."

Dervorin sighed internally, but smiled his most charming smile as he disagreed, "Oh, now that I'm in the sun and warm, those dizzy spells or whatever it was that Faramir complained about are all gone. I'm right as rain, really Prince Imrahil. Why, I think I could turn around and go back to Henneth Annun at the end of this week..." Dervorin had trailed off, because Prince Imrahil was giving him a look. One he recognized, from his summers here with Faramir as teenagers. "Or," Dervorin offered, "I could go see the healers like I promised Faramir that I would."

"I think that would be for the best." Prince Imrahil replied, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. It made him resemble Faramir, for a moment. Which made Dev miss his friend, and made him feel guilty again. Faramir was in Henneth Annun without him, and Dervorin was in Dol Amroth. Which might just be Faramir's favorite place in the world. It was certainly one of the places he felt the safest. And Dervorin was with Faramir's family. Well, at least with Prince Imrahil and his daughter, Faramir's only female cousin, Lothiriel. Imrahil's sons were at sea, and Boromir and Faramir were in the field. Where Dervorin should be.

But there was no help for it. Imrahil wasn't Adrahil, or Faramir, but he wasn't easy to fool, either. So Dervorin went to see Healer Hethaeron, who was an apprentice of one of old Prince Adrahil's healers, before Adrahil had died. It wasn't easy, even though Hethaeron was a kind man. After about a week, Dervorin decided that he'd had enough, and packed his bags.

He didn't expect anyone to notice. He'd been taking breakfast and dinner with Lothiriel and Imrahil, but...he wasn't their kin. Dervorin had forgotten, if he'd ever known, that Imrahil was almost as observant as his famous father, and his less famous nephew.

"You're not ready to leave yet, Lieutenant." Faramir's uncle observed kindly from the door of Dervorin's comfortable guest suite, with its lovely view of the harbor at sunset.

"Oh, I have orders." Dervorin assured the Prince, with perfect confidence. Dervorin was, in fact, a Captain, although his promotion was a state secret. He could cut himself orders, if he had to. Dervorin didn't in fact have any such orders, but Prince Imrahil didn't know that. Imrahil ran the navy, not the army.

Imrahil sighed. "Sit, Dev." He ordered firmly, though there was warmth in his voice and his eyes.

Dervorin sat, nervous, and trying to think of a way out of this. "Talks" with Faramir's family never went well for him. Dervorin could talk just about anyone into just about anything, but talking to Faramir, Boromir, or Adrahil had always gotten him places he didn't expect to be. Not bad places, necessarily, and Dervorin wouldn't give up his friendship with Faramir and by extension Boromir for anything in the world. But they weren't predictable, the Princes of Dol Amroth and their heirs.

Imrahil shut the door, and came to sit at a chair across from Dervorin, angled so that they could both watch the sunset. For awhile, that's all they did. It wasn't a comfortable silence, at first. But it wasn't uncomfortable, either. Dervorin had spent enough time in Dol Amroth that he knew Imrahil for a good man. A man who would never be hurtful, a purpose, at least not to a friend of Faramir's. And likely not to anyone.

"My father had this wing of the castle renovated, you know." Imrahil said at last, his tone...fondly reminiscent.

"I..ah, didn't know that, your highness." Dervorin answered, wondering what that had to do with anything. "It's very nice." He offered at last, since Imrahil seemed to have quieted.

Imrahil chuckled, "Yes, it in particular has a nice view. Do you know why, Dervorin?"

Dervorin shook his head, because he wasn't supposed to know. That Adrahil had been nearly crippled with arthritis and other health issues when the weather turned had been a closely guarded secret.

"Yes, you do." Imrahil said gently, but with steel in his voice, "You're an observant lad...young man. And you spent a lot of time with Adar, you and Faramir and my younger children."

Reluctantly, Dervorin nodded, "I...I didn't want to presume..." He murmured softly, not sure of where the lines were, here. A lot of the time Dervorin didn't care much about lines, or it was his job to push them. Or, to be honest, sometimes he just pushed the limits to see what would happen. But this was Faramir's family, and so Dev cared about them.

Imrahil sighed again, and reached out a hand, slowly and carefully, to squeeze Dervorin's shoulder. Like Dervorin's own Uncle would have done, if Tyorvond weren't so angry with Dervorin for the....well, the slightly off-color reputation Dervorin had cultivated, to hide his real importance to Ithilien and Gondor, as the head of their spy network. Dervorin swallowed, and answered, "The late Prince your father preferred a room with a view of the sea because he, ah, had trouble, moving around."

"Not just that." Imrahil said, his gray eyes steady on Dervorin's face, "He had trouble, well, similar troubles to those you have. Troubles with no physical explanation, but he served our kingdom in a dangerous role, for many years. Ithilien is on one of our least friendly borders, and you got yourself sent there as barely more than a child, to be by Faramir's side. Your service there has been long and difficult. There's no shame, Dervorin, and no guilt, in needing a rest. My father told me so, and so I have to believe it."

Dervorin swallowed a half-dozen protests, and nodded.

Imrahil patted him on the back, "That's a lad. If Healer Hethaeron isn't to your taste, then we can find someone else to help you. But you will spend more than a week at this. Faramir needs you before the fall, but that gives you several months at least. Get yourself back into better shape, so that you can continue to keep an eye on my nephew."

Dervorin couldn't believe anyone thought that he was really going to stay away from his post for months, but Prince Imrahil didn't seem in a discussing mood, so Dervorin merely sighed, and said, "Yes, your Highness."

"Dev," Imrahil said sternly, "You do not have to do more than spend an hour every third day with a healer. You may rest, or go on long walks on the beach with Lothiriel and her ladies, or spend time in the archives, or whatever other activity you find enjoyable. But you will stay here, and not return to your posting unless you receive an urgent summons. Do you understand me, friend of my nephew?"

"Aye, Prince Imrahil. I understand." Dervorin answered, wide-eyed with surprise that the great Prince would so concern himself with Dervorin. For years, Dev had rather been under the impression that Imrahil tolerated him for Faramir's sake, but barely.

Imrahil nodded, and squeezed Dervorin's shoulder again, warning him kindly, "See that you do as I have told you, young man. Otherwise I will deal with you as I would Faramir or Boromir, were they so foolish as to disregard instructions meant for their well-being while under my roof."

"Oh," Dervorin answered, startled again. He would normally have said something glib, like that he was much less foolish than Faramir, or that he liked living the high, easy life, but lies like that didn't come easily to him, with Faramir's family. With most folk, but not with Faramir's kin. And from the look on Prince Imrahil's face, he was serious, too.

For several days, Dervorin did as he had been told. He very clearly remembered the summer that Faramir had been fifteen, when Faramir had decided to swim the length of the harbor for some insane reason. Faramir had lived to tell the tale thanks to a passing fishing boat, but his uncle had seen to it that sitting was uncomfortable for Dervorin's friend for several days. And then Faramir had spent a remarkable amount of time at the healer's. Dervorin had thought that he'd been doing chores as punishment, but Imrahil and Adrahil were certainly sneaky enough, that Faramir might have been seeing someone rather like Healer Hethaeron himself, that summer.

Dervorin did as he was told, for several days at least. He saw his healer at the appointed times, and practiced the meditation and other skills that Hethaeron taught him. He also took long walks with Lothiriel, and joined her and Prince Imrahil for evening games of Sabana, the famous dice game of Dol Amroth, that was always played between at least three different players.

Then, when Imrahil was busy with some issue having to do with the fleet later that week, Dervorin made his escape. Or would have, if Imrahil's youngest son Amrothos hadn't just arrived home, and come hunting him out.


	18. I Never Was Much Good at Math

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Rangers came late to Ithilien. But Lieutenant Dervorin wasn't sure that the army proper was going to want them all. It was going to be a hard sell, but Dervorin liked a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just a few days after the Battle of the Pelennor ends, in early 3019. Contains dark themes, but no graphic details.

Twenty-two Ithilien Rangers came late to the Pelennor. Not purposely, but Ithilien was large, and Faramir's men ranged into South Gondor and even Harad, besides.

For instance, when Captain Faramir gave the command for his Ithilien Rangers to reinforce Osgiliath, Lieutenant Dervorin was in Harad. As soon as he received word, he returned, picking up along the way other rangers who had been deployed far out into the field. Too far, to have heard Faramir's summons, but close enough, to be summoned by messengers from the hidden villages nearest the Rangers' base.

Lieutenant Dervorin and his exhausted fellows arrived just after the decision to march on the Black Gate had been announced. The scene was one of chaos, which only the kindest of observers would have described as organized. A quiet reigned amongst the newly-arrived, for Pelennor fields -once the grain bin of Gondor- were a blackened charnel house.

"Lieutenant," one of the Rangers said softly to Dervorin, "They're posting that men from Gondor's army proper should report to the east field."

The Rangers were considered part of Gondor's army proper, rather than a Lord's own levies, so they moved towards the eastern-most fields. Dervorin had other pressing duties to discharge, with Prince Imrahil if Faramir were dead or disabled. But Dervorin was also the ranking officer - the only officer - that this particular group of Rangers had, until they reunited with the survivors from the battle. So it was his responsibility to let the powers-that-be know they had twenty-some more bows, and to find his people billeting and food.

Dervorin paused by an older non-com sitting at a table and marking names. Dervorin vaguely recognized the grizzled sergeant as having been one of Boromir's men, once. There were other non-commissioned officers taking the names and units of arriving soldiers, but none as likely to give one of Faramir's men a fair hearing. So Dervorin chose this man.

"Sergeant, you are taking the rolls?" Dervorin inquired, purposely letting exhaustion show through in his voice. Adrenaline and anxiety for the tasks ahead of him kept Dev from truly feeling tired, but he should be. Tired and defeated from having missed the battle, and guilty besides. And he felt that. But at a distance. Dervorin had a job to do. This was the time he had been preparing for, almost his whole life. He had hundreds of traps still to make sure an invading army fell into whilst a friendly army stayed out of. Plus a dozen men in Mordor and Harad, strategically placed to cause the enemy forces serious problems at the most critical times, to coordinate with.

The gray-haired non-com looked even more tired than Dev's men, but he perked up to see new fighters, "How many have you, Lieutenant?"

"Twenty-two." Dervorin answered promptly, elaborating, "A dozen men, including me. No other officers. And ten women who have fought with the rangers on and off this past decade, when we've been short-numbered."

The sergeant spat on the ground, a displeased expression on his face as he gazed from one face, to another. It was clear that he couldn't tell the women from the men, underneath their leather armor. And no wonder. They were all covered in dirt from the road, and blood here and there from one skirmish or another. They'd only missed the battle proper by two days. The Ithilien officers had foreseen that some of the rangers on further-out scouting forays would not be able to make it to the city before the outcome of an attack became dispositive. If Minas Tirith had fallen, Dev's lot would have made some noise to the north of the city, while the others escorted refugees from the old tunnels under the Citadel around Emyn Arnen and down-river, towards the secret fall-back points in the marshes at the mouths of the Anduin. Only Dervorin and the eldest two of the female soldiers had even known of the plan, but Dervorin had no doubt they all would have served. And that their aid would have given the retreat a better chance of succeeding. Dervorin's friend and Captain Faramir was a planner, and he listened. He'd had almost twenty years to plot for contingencies, and he'd done his best.

"The women have to stay." The old sergeant said at last, some regret in his voice. "The army's all men, some of them desperate. No tellin' what they'd do."

Dervorin's gray-blue eyes gleamed as he replied, "Easy enough. The first man who tries to touch one of our Rangers against her will, dies. We'll explain in very small words, while using visual aids, that the same fate awaits any other overly romantic fellow. The other men will remember their manners if they know what's good for them, and the army will still be plus nine fighters. The math works out."

Black humor, but it was a black day. Dervorin smiled toothily. So did the other rangers. It was even harder to tell which of them were female.

The sergeant chuckled darkly, "You rangers have always been crazy." He said, and then, "On your own heads be it. I never was much good at math."

That day, twenty-two additional Rangers joined the army massing to march on the Black Gate. Dervorin considered it his first small victory in Minas Tirith. It would not be his last.


	19. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normal "firsts" for a young man of Gondor probably include harvest festivals, drinking ale, and kissing girls. Maybe even killing orcs. Faramir's list also includes the first time a ghost talked to him, the first time he fought a sea monster, and oh yes, the first time that someone tried to poison him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Takes place when Faramir is in his early twenties, spying in Harad.

Faramir fought just to keep breathing. Inhale; exhale. It was easy. He'd been doing it his whole life. Never with his throat burning this much, or his head throbbing this much, or....just breathe, he reminded himself.

"You're lucky that you're still breathing, Faran." Sayyida commented from just to his right. Sitting on the dirty floor of the bedchamber in a fifth-rate inn, after hours holding his hair and fetching him cold compresses, and she was still ridiculously beautiful, every hair in place. And she still said his name, his false assumed name, as if it had four liquid syllables, instead of just two.

Fortunately, Sayyida had never affected Faramir the way that she did Dervorin. She was lovely, of course. Easily the most alluring woman whom Faramir had ever met. But he liked her for her cleverness, for the way that she declaimed being a good person at every opportunity, yet always did the right thing. He didn't love her, not like Dervorin did. He wasn't sure that Sayyida could love. But right now, he could barely think of anything past the pain.

"I think I'm going to die." Faramir told her sincerely.

"You should be dead." She informed him, her musical voice unusually grave. "It was a very expensive poison that Bey Imad's slaves put in your hummus."

Faramir groaned, and tried not to heave again. "For once, being violently allergic to every Southron spice known to Men has worked in my favor." Ignoring the pain, Faramir turned his head fractionally to look at his dark haired, dark-skinned informant...or rather, friend. For any businesswoman who would spill a skin of wine on a Bey, leave a lucrative transportation contract, and practically carry Faramir to somewhere safe, was certainly a friend. Not a friend to be trusted unequivocally- after all, turning in even the second son of Lord Denethor could buy Sayyida enough prestige to keep herself and her people safe for...well, for as long as there was any safety in the world - but still a friend, of some sort. Blinking at Sayyida dazedly, Farmair managed. "Thanks. For you know..."

"Ruining my chances to afford a new branch in this lovely little oasis town? Oh yes, Faran, you should be very grateful." Sayyida's dark eyes glowed with relief, and she took down her hair. Faramir noted again that it smelled like jasmine and sunshine, and that it made her look younger. He had no idea how old-or young- she truly was. Older than she looked, certainly, since she seemed to know secrets about every powerful man in the south of Harad.

"How did you get Bey Imad to let me leave? And why does he want to kill me, anyway?" Faramir asked, wincing as his tone turned inadvertently into a plaintive whine on the last question.

Sayyida laughed, but it was a bitter sound. Still engaging, still attractive...but churned up, broken. Like shattered glass. Faramir wondered what it took, to cause someone to have to learn to laugh as if she wanted to take a man to bed, even when her heart was breaking. Faramir was sure that Sayyida wouldn't answer. She often didn't, when the question was personal, or something that she could convince Faramir to pay her for, or trade her something of value for. Dervorin played her game; Faramir, as a rule, did not, unless he had to. But Sayyida did answer.

"I know Bey Imad, of old. I do not know why he tried to kill you...it may be merely because you sheltered my camels, yestereve, when he had declared that no one give them stable." Sayyida related softly, reaching out to brush a sweat-soaked strand of hair from Faramir's eyes.

"Why..." Faramir began to ask, before realizing, "Ah. He wanted you to have to come to him, for help. He's a toad."

Sayyida laughed, and this time the sound was light, and sweet, airy tambourine. "Ah yes, he is. And you, my little fennec fox, could devour him in one bite, in any fair duel. So he gives you poison. Or," Sayyida's voice turned serious, "He may have acted on someone else's orders, my Faran. You and Devyango made a new least-time record between here and the border, and that is...a threat, to many." Sayyida gave him a critical look, "It may be best that you act a bit more like a merchant who is concerned for his standing amongst other merchants."

It was the closest that Sayyida would ever come to admitting that she knew that something about Faramir and Dervorin wasn't quite right, for the merchant men from an isolated town in South Gondor whom they pretended to be. It was a break in her armor, a chink in the emotional distance and sexy joie-de-vivre that she wore like mithril plate. And Faramir had to recognize it for what it was...a declaration of friendship. And a warning in the strongest possible terms that a normal merchant, one concerned with profit and standing, wouldn't have been able to transport weapons and silks in that time. But then a normal merchant wouldn't have replaced the weapons with a much small number of substandard wares, much easier to transport and impossible to report upon, when everything was done illegally, and a substantial bribe was offered to the receiving party.

"Since I prefer my hummus without poison," Faramir answered, "I will do my best to see that we do not embarrass the other merchants in the future."

"It would be best." Sayyida approved with a grave nod, while looking at Faramir as if he were the only man in the world. But Faramir wasn't particularly moved by it; that was just how Sayyida looked at men when she wanted them to do something for her. Covered in his own vomit as he was, Faramir wasn't sure what in Arda's name Sayyida could possibly want from him.

"Now," She said with playful sternness, "I call the maids to fill the bathing tub, and then I give you a bath."

That hadn't been what Faramir had expected. He wanted a bath very much, but not from Sayyida. And it didn't seem like a credible threat. "There is no bath tub in the room. And I doubt that there are many maids in this establishment, Saya. Otherwise, they would surely perish of shame from the healthy bed bug population."

Sayyida muttered something that sounded like, "Well, we'll just see about that." Soon enough, to Faramir's astonishment, three women who were almost certainly prostitutes (probably the poor ladies of the night who worked the crowd in the common room, of an evening) were coming in and out of Faramir's cheap room with hot, boiling kettles and pots full of water, pouring it into a bathtub that had materialized from somewhere. Sayyida herded them all as efficiently as Faramir had seen an ancient shepherd handle his sheep. Within a matter of minutes, the 'maids' were gone, each with a substantial amount of coin in her pocket. And Sayyida was pouring oil from a small bottle that looked like it was made out of a diamond, into the steaming water of what was evidently intended to be Faramir's bath.

"No," Faramir objected, "Bad enough that you had to see me sick up. You are not giving me a bath. I thank you most sincerely for arranging for one...I can't think of when I've ever needed one more. But I can bathe myself."

Sayyida ignored Faramir's protests, helping him to rise to his feet and undress as if it were no effort whatsoever, even though he outweighed her by a goodly amount. "Hush, my Faran." She soothed him, "You are weaker than a newborn camel. The poison which should have killed you may yet, if I leave you to your own devices and you fall and crack your head open. Then my beautiful Devyango would never sleep with me again, nor you either."

Mostly naked before he even realized it, Faramir tried to gently push his female friend away. She had seen him naked before, but only when he'd needed something from her. This was different, and he felt vulnerable, and he didn't want help. He might have put up with Boromir's, or Dev's, or even the aid of one of his Dol Amroth kin. But Sayyida was unavoidably, overwhelmingly female, and something about her whispered 'lady,' even though other traits said clearly, 'whore.' But whatever she was or had been, Faramir liked her and respected her, and he didn't want her to bathe him when he was in fact, just as she had asserted, feeling weaker than a new-born camel.

Sayyida responded to Faramir's weak protests by smacking his bare bottom lightly, as she scolded in a purr, "None of that, foxling. Not unless you want me to give you a spanking. And not a fun spanking; a slippering like I would give to a naughty little boy."

The harsh, incongruous contrast of Sayyida's flirty but sincere lecture and her unknowing use of one of Boromir's favorite nicknames for him made Faramir suddenly miss his brother, and his home. And even his father Denethor, who would always summon the healers and let Faramir rest BY HIMSELF when he was obviously feeling unwell. Fighting was evidently futile, but Faramir still had to protest, as Sayyida helped him lower himself into the blessedly hot and good-smelling water, "I'm not a boy, Saya."

"I doubt that you were ever a boy, my fennec, the more a pity for you." Sayyida told him sadly, as she lifted a sponge that had materialized from somewhere, and submerged it in the water, before squeezing it out over Faramir's head. "But if you yet have thirty years of age, I will eat this sponge."

Faramir spluttered, from surprise more than the water. Faran was supposed to be fifty; a man much younger than that wasn't taken seriously. He dyed his skin and walked like an older man, and to the best of his knowledge, no one had ever questioned his age. Ever since he had started to talk, people who didn't know his age had always thought that him older than he was. His eyes must have reflected his shock and his worry, for Sayyida kissed him reassuringly on the forehead. "Do not fret, Faran. I am very good at judging a man's age. Once, I had to be. Now, it is habit."

"I won't tell." Faramir assured her. Not about that, and not about Bey Imad, and the way his eyes had undressed Sayyida as if he knew her intimately.

Sayyida's lips curved into a smile that was sensual and comforting all at the same time, and her eyes said, 'I know; neither will I,' while aloud she purred, "What's it worth to you, fennec, that I don't tell anyone your secrets?"

And Faramir had to laugh, because after wiping his brow and mopping up his sick and bathing him while he was as helpless as a newborn, he knew that there was no way that Sayyida could find him desirable. She was just trying to distract him from the misery he was in, so he played the game. "What do you want, Saya?"

And Sayyida just sang him a song in answer, something about birds with bright feathers and spiced oranges. A lullaby, that Aunt Lorias had used to sing to Faramir, when he'd had nightmares as a child. Faramir fell asleep listening to it, and woke up in a bed in a much nicer inn, far from that oasis, and Bey Iman. The innkeeper had instructions to see to all of his needs, but Sayyida and her entourage were long gone.


	20. Dedication 1: Finduilas of Dol Amroth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedication has a price, as Finduilas of Dol Amroth knows all too well.

Dedication has a price.

Finduilas of Dol Amroth had always walked through the interstices of reality and dreams. Sometimes her dreams were true; sometimes they were not.

After Boromir, the lines between what-was and what-might-be in Finduilas' eyes and mind were badly frayed. Finduilas knew that another child would break them. Would break her.

Denethor knew it, too. Boromir was everything he wanted, son and heir and joy. He would not risk her in bearing another child. He needed her, her and Boromir.

But Finduilas knew...that it might make a difference, a second boy. That the odds were at least even that it would be a second boy.

"My son fails in his dedication to Gondor, and in doing so fails all of mankind." Steward Ecthelion told his daughter-by-law.

Finduilas sighed, laying a bookmark in the tome she was reading. Giving Lord Ecthelion her full attention, she said quietly, "I am not sure it can be described as failure, when the price of dedication to country would be the sacrifice of our family. Of Denethor's happiness, maybe even his sanity. Of Boromir's mother. I owe a duty to the child I already have, Father."

The old man snorted. Leaning forward, he focused his famous stare on Finduilas. "Failure it is, and you know the stakes. Will you serve me - serve Gondor - in this?

Finduilas chose. At his father's bidding, she gave her husband a potion. One that should have weakened his will to the point where he would have coupled with her, and not thought of the consequences. But weakness of will was not one of Denethor's faults, and even drugged, he refused to give her the child that would have cost her life. And Denethor never fully trusted her, again. But she'd known that would be the cost.

Lord Ecthelion came to Finduilas again. It was on one of many days when Boromir had been injured, running in where older, stronger children feared to tread.

"He will be a good soldier, a good leader of men." Ecthelion told her, gently stroking the sleeping Boromir's golden hair. "But his life may be short, for those very reasons."

Finduilas sighed, putting aside her harp. "We tried, Father." She reminded her husband's sire. "My husband your son will not be so easily fooled again. He has accepted no drink prepared by my hands, since that day."

"Finduilas," the Steward said gravely to the Swan Princess he had come to view as another daughter to him, "I am dying. I will not see another spring. Only Denethor and Boromir lie between Gondor and chaos, and with chaos, destruction. My other grandsons are all dead."

Finduilas swallowed back tears. She'd loved her nephews dearly, and each death had aged her husband ten years. "What would you have me do, Father?" She asked sadly, hating and fearing what she thought he might say.

Ecthelion's gray eyes pinned Finduilas like an arrow spearing a starling from the air. "Your child does not have to be Denethor's." He told her gravely, sorrow and fear and self-loathing in his eyes. But still, he said it. He wouldn't order her. But in the end, he didn't need to. She chose to betray her husband; to betray a friend's trust.

Dedication cost Finduilas not only her husband's trust, but also her own honor. And, in time, her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is intended to be the first in a series, including incidents occurring in the lives of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Melpomaen of Imladris (and his mother in the DHAU, Solora), Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth, Lord Denethor, Lady Galadriel, and Aldarion the Mariner. I'd love to know if you liked this first one, and if you have any particular interest in a similar brief story concerning dedication and one of these other characters.


	21. Time's Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir is injured in combat, twice in rapid succession. Faramir tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a flashback in a chapter of B&E, so if you've already read that, you've seen this before. But it stands on its own as a story set in the late Third Age, so I thought that I would post it as such. 
> 
> Quotes: 
> 
> If you don't understand how a man could both love his brother dearly and want to wring his neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child." - paraphrased from a quote by Linda Sunshine 
> 
> “Yet between the brothers there was great love, and had been since childhood, when Boromir was the helper and protector of Faramir. No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father’s favour or for the praise of men." - J.R.R. Tolkien, the Appendices.

Citadel of Minas Tirith, Approximately a Dozen Years Before the Ring War 

A tall, slender grey-eyed man stood in front of the thick wooden door of the Lord Steward's office. Being the Steward's younger son, one might think that Faramir would have less trepidation than the average petitioner. And perhaps he did; it was often said that Denethor was a hard man but a fair one. By the latest years of Gondor's long struggle against its ancient enemy, Lord Denethor sometimes seemed warped and off, even to those whom he knew and loved well, such as his heir and his younger brother-by-law the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Still, Faramir did not have the same fearful trepidation of a man who had never entered the rarefied surroundings of the Lord Steward's offices. On some days, Denethor remembered that he thought of Faramir as a loyal and competent, if somewhat uninspired, Captain of Gondor. On other days, he remembered that Faramir's birth had bought the long, lingering death of his wife Finduilas. Or, sometimes worse, that Faramir listened to his own heart and mind above the orders his Steward and Father gave him. 

'Please,' Faramir importuned Eru, the Valar, and any of his ancestors who might be listening and inclined to look kindly upon him, 'Please let this be one of those days when he is charitably inclined towards me. Please let him have just reviewed the reduced casualty lists from Ithilien, or the amount of weaponry and other largess we have captured from the enemy. Please, do NOT let this be one of the days when he has been poring over the intelligence reports, and based on information from some source that he will tell NO ONE of, he has decided that I am hiding things from him. Or worse yet, have been reminded of Mother, and that but for me, he would still have her.' 

Then a deep voice, one more suited to the field of battle than the hallowed halls of the Citadel, called 'Enter,' and Faramir had to empty his mind of any thoughts but the one indulgence he had come to beg of his father. 

Lord Denethor snapped briskly, "What do you want, Faramir?" He had barely glanced away from the scrolls spread across his desk. 

Faramir sighed in relief. That wasn't his father Denethor's truly irritated voice; it was merely the tone that indicated that the Lord Steward was busy and had little time for interruptions. So Faramir came directly to his point, "My Lord Steward, I have come to ask another month's leave from my command in Ithilien." 

At that, Denethor did look up to meet Faramir's eyes. As his gray-eyed gaze met Faramir's and held, the Steward's eyes narrowed, and then the stern lines on his face softened. "Ah. To keep Boromir from overdoing." 

"Yes, my Lord Father." Faramir agreed. One of Boromir's dearest friends, Lord Tavasond the heir of the Lebennin, had been killed in action recently. He'd met his death taking an arrow for Boromir. The Steward's heir had taken his friend's loss hard. Faramir had been recalled from Ithilien at around the time of Tavasond's death, not so coincidentally, he thought. There were few subjects on which the Steward and his second son were in complete accord, but loving Boromir was one of them. Another was that Boromir was a bit of a hothead, as demonstrated in his recent reckless charge and subsequent injury. Boromir was also an awful patient, and still grieving his friend's death. Denethor wasn't good at dealing with anyone's grief, even that of his beloved eldest son. But Faramir was. And Denethor was a big enough man to let him be. 

"You can have another two weeks." Denethor allowed, even going to the trouble of explaining his decision, "I need you back in Ithilien in good enough time to take a trip into Harad yourself before the campaign season really begins. I've some intelligence on changing alliances between the Beys in South Gondor which we might be able to take advantage of, if you and your spies play your roles well." 

The reasoning was sound, so Faramir nodded. 

"Don't tell Boromir the nature of the task you must return to finish." Denethor added. 

"It would not do to upset him." Faramir agreed. Boromir hated Faramir's secondary career as a spy with a passion. Upon receiving that reassurance, Denethor quickly dismissed Faramir, and Faramir lost no time in tendering his farewells. 

Faramir spent the next week in and out of the House of Healing visiting Boromir and several others of his men. As needed, Faramir cajoled his brother, amused him, nagged him, and harassed him. It seemed to do the trick, as Boromir was out of the House and back in his own chambers in record time. Faramir also spent time talking with the grieving mother of Tavasond's unborn child, the brothers' childhood companion Nessanie. 

A week before he was scheduled to return to Ithilien, Faramir sat perched on the table beside Boromir's bed, playing cards with his grumpy brother. Both young men were unusually quiet. Boromir characteristically so, after Tavan's death. Faramir, pondering how to approach a sensitive issue. 

"My hand." Faramir announced with the shadow of a grin. 

"You always win." Boromir grumbled back. 

Faramir snorted, following the pre-set pattern of a thousand arguments. "I've tried and tried to teach you how to count cards. If you won't lower yourself to it than you won't win." 

"It's cheating," Boromir shot back, now beginning to smile a bit himself, "And I ought to thrash you soundly for it, cheeky little knave that you are. Even if you are my own obnoxious baby brother." 

Faramir nodded somberly, but with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "Yes. My many faults reflect poorly on my teachers. Who include, oh wait, you, my dashing elder brother." 

Boromir chuckled, before swatting idly at Faramir's red-gold hair. "Such a jester. Now, out with it." 

"Hmm?" 

"Out with it, Kit. What's really eating at you?" Boromir elaborated, while gesturing for Faramir to hand him the grapes. 

Momentarily nonplussed, Faramir gaped and blushed before asking, "How do you even know that there is something on my mind?" 

"You may know almost everything in the world," Boromir replied, with an elder brother's lazy grin, "but I know you." Then Boromir snapped his fingers, "Grapes, Faramir, or have you gone deaf as well as dumb?" 

Faramir handed his brother the fruit, and then decided just to go to the heart of the matter. Boromir appreciated bluntness. Well, he did once he'd finished getting angry over it and shouting at the insult. 

"You should go slowly with Nessa," Faramir managed, "And you shouldn't blame yourself for Tavas' death. It wasn't your fault that he fell in battle, achieving the goal of protecting his Captain-General and future Steward. And its not your fault that you love Nessanie. Love just happens, Brom." 

The grapes fell, plop plop plop onto the stone floor of Boromir's bedchamber, as Faramir's older brother stared at him, mouth open wide in shock. 

If the subject hadn't been so serious and heart-rending, Faramir would have been proud of himself. He took pride in being one of the few people in Gondonr who routinely shocked their valiant Captain-General. 

"How...in the name of Eru and all the Valar, did you know of that, Faramir? I haven't told a soul!" Boromir protested, once he had found his tongue. 

Faramir started to answer, only to stop as Boromir irritably waved him to silence. "Never mind." Boromir put his head in his hands, and Faramir leaned forward to squeeze his brother's nearer shoulder supportively. 

"I arranged to have her visit tomorrow, when the Lord Steward our father will be out reviewing repairs to the Rammas Echor." Faramir said quietly, "Was that ill-done of me?" 

"No!...Yes...I don't know, Faramir! What in Eru's name can I possibly say to her?" Boromir answered. 

"Tell her you blame yourself for Tavas' death. That's true enough, wrong-headed of you as it is. There was nothing you could have done to save him." 

"But I've never been so undone by a soldier's death before, not since I was a beardless boy...." Boromir objected. 

Faramir sighed, "Brom, don't be a nitwit. This is the first time you've lost a close childhood friend. That is enough to be undone even without the complicated situation with Nessa." 

"But if you suspected, others may have, as well. What if she knows?" 

"I know you very well," Faramir replied in a bracing tone, "And I began to suspect that there was...someone, a year prior." Faramir remembered the occasion well. He had been accustomed to teasing his brother Boromir about his womanizing ways, as had a select number of Boromir's friends. At a certain point during the previous year, Boromir's flirtations had changed, becoming more an exercise, a cover. Faramir was in a unique position to realize that, being intimately familiar with both Boromir and the mechanics of putting on a front. Quietly, Faramir added, "I doubt that anyone else has guessed, nor need they. It is perfectly understandable that you will be there for Nessa during this time. If things develop later, than that will not be looked at much askance. Just be patient." 

"Oh, what do you know of it, virgin that you are?" Boromir mocked irritably. 

To Boromir's surprise and fascination, his younger brother blushed. "Why, Faramir," The Steward's heir crowed delightedly, "You've been holding out on me. Tell me, who was the lady who at last overcame the pure virtue of my baby brother, the perpetual virgin?" Anticipating a good story, the Steward's heir popped another grape into his mouth. 

"It, um, it wasn't one woman..." Faramir mumbled, still blushing furiously. "She had friends..." 

Boromir choked on the grape, and Faramir had to pound his brother's back until Boromir caught his breath again. "Tell." Boromir ordered, once he could speak again. 

And so Faramir did, leaving out many of the details. Boromir did not approve of Faramir's occasionally playing the spy in Harad. As he spoke, Boromir's gaze turned from fascinated and teasing to a bit sympathetic. 

"Not all that you had expected, eh, little brother? I am sorry for you. For me, every night spent in passion was a fine one, until I realized that I wanted more than that. And with my dear friend's love, of all women." Boromir stopped to sigh in bitter irony, before turning his attention back to his brother, "But you, you were born knowing that love was more. I had always expected you to take the Uncle Imrahil route. But we cannot all marry our common-born true love at a bare, beardless twenty years of age." 

"Among other things, our father would have killed us." Faramir agreed somberly. That got a laugh from Boromir. Faramir continued more seriously, regret and resignation and affection mingled in his voice and his heart, "You were right. I had thought to wait until I was wed, or at the least betrothed. But around us there is so much death..." That, and Gondor had needed the information that Dervorin's contact Sayyida had possessed. Sayyida had wanted Faramir as well as Dervorin in her bed, and one thing had led to another. Faramir couldn't bring himself to regret all of it. In his twenty-three years of life, he'd done much worse things for Gondor than sleep with a willing woman, and Sayyida had become a friend of sorts, besides an invaluable resource. 

Faramir had gone quiet to long, so he added, "Dev was there," to distract his brother, elaborating, "It was actually his idea." 

"Of course he was, and of course it was." Boromir drawled, "Any trouble you get into, he's always there." 

"Him or you." Faramir teased, before growing serious again, "Don't mention it to Gendarion, or Ynithe." Gendarion was Dervorin's cousin, the heir to the Ringlo Vale, and also one of Boromir's good friends. 

"Of course I wouldn't, Fara." Boromir assured, shaking his head, "I did my best not to tell Gendan of all of my exploits. Especially since marrying Ynithe, he's been almost worse than Father. For all I know, he'd go running to his father, to complain of Dev corrupting you. And no one wants to deal with a disapproving Lord Tyorvond." Tyorvond served as Denethor's Captain-General, after Denethor himself left the field, and since Boromir himself had yet to gain sufficient years and experience. 

Boromir leaned back against his pillows, considering his brother. "You know, Faramir, if I didn't know you better, I'd think that you had just made up all of that, to distract me." 

Faramir grinned, half-embarrassed, half-rueful. "I didn't. I did choose now to tell you, to distract you." 

"Ai," Boromir sighed deeply, "What am I going to do? She could never love me, and I can't afford the distraction." 

"You can't afford to give up, either." Faramir argued. 

"What do you know of it? Just because you've slept with someone doesn't mean you've had to struggle with a hopeless love." Boromir retorted. 

Faramir regarded his brother silently for a moment. At last, he said, "I know a lot about trying to win someone's love, Boromir. And I judge your case not to be as hopeless as mine." 

The two exchanged a long, speaking look, and then Boromir nodded. "I'll see Ness tomorrow. Thank you." 

"What are brothers for? You've certainly cut through the knot of my problems often enough." 

"Well, you are more problematical than I." Boromir drawled, with an elder brother's superior grin. 

After that night, Faramir worried less about his brother, although perhaps he should not have. A scant few weeks after returning to Ithilien, he was summoned home by the news that his brother had been injured, repulsing a band of orcs who had been having a go at Gondor's borders. Denethor was worried enough to call Faramir back, although he probably should not have. But Faramir's lieutenants held Ithilien well enough, and it was a relief to Faramir later, to have learned that they could. 

Boromir was seriously injured this time. He'd led a dangerous sortie to rescue an overextended squire. Then Boromir had stayed in the rear of the retreat, even after he was identified as the Steward's son, and all the arrows loosed by the other side were aimed at him. He'd taken several arrows, and a long slash up his leg. 

Faramir would remember for the rest of his life how scared he had felt, waiting in a room at the hated House of Healing beside his father for news of his brother's condition. He thought that Lord Denethor would remember it, as well. When the healer came to tell him that he held out hope, but that the Steward's heir had lost a lot of blood, he offered to let one of them go in. 

Faramir would have deferred to his father, but Denethor had other ideas. 

"You go." The Steward ordered. "Tell him that you need him. Tell him that I'm being unfair to you. Tell him that you're planning to go dance naked in Harad. Tell him anything, to make him stay out of the Halls of Mandos. I cannot - we cannot - lose him." 

Faramir's jaw dropped, but none of those were bad ideas. He spoke to Boromir for hours. Boromir got stronger, and after a day of Denethor and Faramir taking turns at his bedside, the healers declared Boromir out of danger. 

"Go bathe." Denethor ordered Faramir, at that point. "You smell like a cave in the woods." 

Faramir huffed a slight laugh, forgetting, for the moment, with whom he was speaking. "I wonder why that is?" Faramir jested. 

Denethor smiled slightly, his gray eyes alight with immeasurable relief and even a touch of rare amusement. "You did well, today, boy." He praised Faramir, "Now go get yourself cleaned up, and you can come back to sleep beside him. I must herd men, and our Boromir should not wake alone." 

After Boromir was well on the road to recovery, Faramir realized that he was quietly furious at his brother. Not unsympathetic, but enraged. "If you think, in that rock of a head of yours, that either Tavasond or Nessanie would be pleased by your death, then you are a greater fool than I have ever thought you to be. And I was the one who re-wrote most of your essays at the academy." 

"Nag, nag, nag." Boromir muttered, stroking his barely healed leg uncomfortably. 

Faramir suppressed an urge to kick him. "Brom, what were you thinking?" Faramir demanded instead. 

Boromir blustered, and would have rejected the criticisms, but for that they came from Faramir, and Boromir had had naught but time to think, the past few days. "I'm not sure," he answered, "I was thinking that I had to make up, for Tavasond and all of the others who can't fight with us anymore. And feeling guilty for Nessanie's babe, who will grow up without a father." 

Faramir was sympathetic, but unwilling to lose his brother due to misplaced guilt. "I understand, but it was foolish, brother. Should you be so thoughtless again, I will deal with you as you would with me." Faramir promised.

"I'm the older brother, Fara."

Fara grinned at his brother through his worry and concern. "And I'm of age now, as well. And of equal rank, I'll have you know, with the both of us Captains."

"Still," Boromir blustered, well aware that Fara, who had been helping him move about, could easily take him now. "Its not right."

Faramir's smile slipped off his face. "Oh? Do I love you less than you love me? Or is my dignity less valuable than yours?"

Boromir groaned. "Of course not."

Fara gently grabbed his older brother 'round the waist and lowered Boromir over his own lap.

"Fara?" Boromir asked in concern, "I thought you said next time, little brother."

Faramir pulled his brother's nightshirt up. "I had. But then you insulted me, and I changed my mind. Well you know that had our positions been reversed, you would have spanked me soundly for my foolishness. So I shall you, that you need not feel I am incapable of taking care of you when you have need."

Boromir yelped as his brother's firm hand crashed down on his backside for the first time. "But Fara," he argued grumpily, deciding not to struggle as he was still weak as a kitten, "You know Father shall chastise me thusly as well, 'ere he sends me back to my regiment."

Faramir didn't pause in his spanking of his brother, but it was there nonetheless in the room, the normally unspoken of Oliphaunt that was Denethor's lack of care for his youngest son. Denethor had never once personally disciplined Faramir, preferring to hand the child off to a guard with instructions for punishment. Such occasions, so far as Boromir knew, had been blessedly rare, for Faramir had not by nature been a difficult child, save in ways that were normally quiet and difficult to observe without careful and perceptive attention. Attention his father had never paid, though his brother had. 'Twas a somewhat embarrassing reversal of roles for him to be over Faramir's knee, Boromir reflected, but still he preferred the embarrassment and the pain to thinking of how his Father had failed his brother, or of how foolish he had been to fight so recklessly, caught up in grief over Tavis's death and his emotional turmoil over Nessa.

Boromir stifled a yelp as Faramir quite skillfully and sharply targeted his sit spots. "I'm sorry, little brother." The elder offered, starting to squirm. The pain, though relatively mild to one accustomed to feeling his father's paddle, was cathartic for his guilty conscience. "I am sorry for worrying you, and sorry that ...ow...curse you, you have uncommonly large and firm hands considering your scrawny frame..."

Faramir chuckled a bit at that, but it was a watery chuckle, leading Boromir to believe Faramir was no more enjoying punishing him than he had ever enjoyed punishing his younger brother.

"I'm sorry that you have not had the safety of our father's regard these years, as well as my own," Boromir got out between muffled yelps, feeling rather sorry for any disobedient rangers under his little brother's command.

Faramir sighed, ending the spanking and helping his older brother up, then to lay on his bed, where Faramir curled around his half-reclining brother. "You can be sorry for worrying me by nearly dying, Brom. And for worrying Nessa and your other friends and even our father as well, for that matter. But 'tis I should apologize to you, who had to act as father to me when most older brothers were cheerfully tormenting their pesky younger siblings."

"Nay, fool." Brom reassured, catching the rising Faramir off-balance and pulling him back into an embrace. "I was glad to be your friend and protector as well as your brother. Always, except when it involves causing you pain. And I'm honored to have you as my friend and protector as well. Though to be fair, you have been ever since you first taught me how to stop reversing my letters, back when you were just a tot."

Faramir returned his embrace, murmuring "There are many different ways to love and protect someone, I suppose." The younger brother then kissed the elder softly on the forehead in farewell. "I must head back to my post tonight." Faramir apologized. "Your recovery is assured if you do not overdo, and Ithilien is being pushed from every side. Nessa will visit tomorrow, and Uncle Imrahil at the end of the week. I leave you in good hands, besides our Father's."

"Have a care, kit." Boromir instructed sternly. "I hear of your antics getting much riskier up there, I'll take leave that I might ride up and supervise you. And I'll bring Sergeant Menohtar with me, and leave you to him." Boromir grinned, "And you can ask Erchirion, or even Uncle Imrahil, whether it matters to old Menohtar whether one of his Swanlings is a newly-made Captain or a raw recruit, when it comes to foolish risks." 

Faramir winced. "Aye, I'll be careful." For well Faramir knew that rank and station mattered little to Menohtar. The old sea salt might only be a sergeant in Imrahil's navy, but he was also Imrahil's uncle-by-marriage. Because of that, Menohtar seemed to view himself as the protector of all of Imrahil's children and his nephews. On top of that, though the new Captain of the Rangers always welcomed his brother the Captain-General of Gondor's armies to Ithilien, Boromir's visits more often than not resulted in headaches for Faramir. Or rather, a sore backside, although often a headache as well. In addition to a strong arm and a stout paddle, Boromir possessed a loud and booming voice. Even his whisper was loud and penetrating. 

Boromir looked at his brother sternly, crossing his arms in a paternal fashion even as he squirmed on his recently-spanked bottom. Faramir had to cough to hide a smile, and then decided not to bother. 

At first Boromir's eyes narrowed at the grin, and then the humor of the situation got to him, too, and he had to smile back. The brothers shared a moment of perfect camraderie, before Boromir fixed Faramir with a serious look. "I mean it, Fara. About being careful. I might only be able to visit, and at that not frequently, due to the distance of your posting and the fact that, crazy spy network aside, you run it quite well. But I CAN ask Imrahil for the indefinite loan of Menohtar to serve as your personal sergeant." 

"Oh, for the love of...Boromir, I swear to you, I will be careful." Silently, Faramir amended, 'As careful as I CAN be." Then he gave his brother a final, reassuring smile, and left. 

Boromir sat on his bed for a few more moments, before carefully rolling onto his side. Which allowed him to not only rub his sore arse, but also pick up a lap-desk to compose a letter to his Uncle Imrahil, explaining Faramir's need for a responsible and PRACTICAL sergeant. Boromir knew that he didn't even have to mention names...he and Imrahil had discussed this matter before.


	22. Sharp and Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn comes by her fierce spirit quite honestly. Aragorn knows that, since he had known her mother.

Fierce is the Lady Eowyn, dressed as a shield-maid in the hall of her forebears. Sharp is her sword, and sharp are her tongue and clear eyes. Strong is her arm, and her spirit. Strong, but near overstrained. 

I knew her mother, once. A little golden-haired spit-fire, was Theodwyn. Youngest daughter of Thengel-King and his Gondorrhim wife Morwen, she had no fear. Warm and strong at the same time, she was a remarkable child. 

No less so is her daughter, though Theodwyn would weep at the pain and weariness in our Eowyn's eyes. I will do my best for her, my young friend's child. Even if the best is no more than to assure her of her own worth, as shield-maiden and a leader and protector of her people. Something tells me that she has a part to play in all of this, before the end comes. A part far beyond that of a beautiful bird stuck in a cage.


	23. Pressure Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sayyida bint Esmail is about to make her move, and earn her freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Taking place late in the Third Age, some twenty years or so before the time of the Ring War. This skates the line between underage abuse of minors, but keeps it implied and nothing is graphic, so I've gone ahead and posted it here without those warnings. But if things like this bother you, even if they're not graphic, then maybe skip this one.

The sounds and smells of Umbar harbor floated through the window into the elegantly appointed townhome. It was furnished with the finest imported lacquer and wood. Jade cabinets from far-off Khand and oak bookshelves from the forests of Gondor and Arnor lined the walls. Despite the pretty appointments, it was a torture chamber. Sayyida bint Esmail knew it well, and had since she was first given in servitude to the master of this house and others like him at the age of 9. 

Sayyida had waited years to win her freedom. Years of pain, degradation, and fear. But even monsters have their weak spots, and she had learned them. 

The little girl, only nine years old, whom their current host, Oligarch Ludovico, had just sent running from the room in tears. She was a weak spot. 

"Tell me, great Sir," Sayyida whispered, as Ludovico leered at her, "Does Oligarch Efisio know that your pretty new pet is his granddaughter?" 

Ludovico reeled away from her as though she'd struck him with a hammer, though she'd laid not a finger on him. A decade and a half of hard-won control helped Sayyida conceal her triumph. At last, at last, she had one of the men who tormented her exactly where she wanted him. Gaping like a dying fish on the floor before her, his fear making him weak and her strong. 

"If you kill me to silence me," she continued, standing and smiling coolly, "then you will never know who I told, or where I wrote down these simple words which could sentence you and all you hold dear to destruction." 

"Please," her tormentor begged, "Please, little flower. I will give you anything you wish to buy your silence." 

"My freedom." 

"It is yours," he promised, "and gold, and jewels." 

"My freedom, and I get to take anything I wish with me when I go. And I want your protection from anyone who would seek to bring me back here to Umbar." 

"Done, anything," he babbled, "if the Spider learns I've kept his only flesh and blood from him, and what I've done with her, then my life and the lives of my sons and grandsons will be worth less than nothing. You know how cruel he is, little flower." 

"Far better than you," lied Sayyida, for Oligarch Efisio was only cruel in the sense that a storm was cruel. True, he was the most dangerous man in Umbar, but it was because of his lack of personal cruelty, and his dedication to what he saw as the good of Umbar. When Efisio called Sayyida and the other young female slaves to serve him, he asked only that they recite poetry and dance. He never tried to touch them. He had few vices, the Spider, yet he'd had more men murdered than any other monster Sayyida had ever met. And Sayyida knew much of monsters. She had been wise enough not to try and deal with Efisio. Instead, Ludovico cowered before her, and his shame would keep him silent long after she was gone. Efisio was by far the more dangerous man, and Sayyida told herself, and would tell herself for decades, that it was only because of that danger that she made her next request. 

"And the girl." 

"What girl?" 

"Efisio's granddaughter. Isra. I want her, too." 

"Take her," Ludovico offered, "I never want to see her again." 

Sayyida took her freedom, and the many baubles she'd 'earned' over the years. She took Isra, to keep her safe from Ludovico and his like, safe enough that Efisio would not see Sayyida as an enemy should he someday come to learn of Isra's existence. And when bandits stole Isra from Sayyida some ten years later, Faramir and Dervorin helped Sayyida to steal her back. Isra later married a wine merchant from South Gondor, and her sons served in the court of the new-made Prince Amrothos and Princess Rajiya of Taduin. And, by then, Sayyida was able to admit to herself that it had been her own honor and kindness which had made her rescue Isra, and not only her self-interest. Faramir made her realize it, and then Dervorin wouldn't stop bothering her until she admitted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: 
> 
> If you want to read more about Sayyida, she is in "Lucky," with Faramir and Dervorin, in the Tales of the Third Age in Twilight, link below: 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/214277/chapters/397547
> 
> She is also in "Firsts," with Faramir, also in the Tales of the Third Age in Twilight, here: 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/214277/chapters/472599
> 
> She is also, with Dervorin and Faramir, in the very dark (but not graphic) ficlet "I just may kill you yet," here: 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/503877


	24. A Fortunate Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every mother’s dearest wish is that her child will be lucky enough to live a fulfilling, happy life. Against impossible odds, Gilraen’s son did. In that way, she was a fortunate woman, and her story was one of ultimate victory, and not a tragedy at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some of the lines said by Dirhael, Ivorwen, and Gilraen are direct quotes from Tolkien’s books.

Gilraen Dirhaeliel was a fortunate woman. She was also a woman who sacrificed everything she had in the hopes of bringing about a bright future she knew that she would never see. 

Gilraen was loving. She loved her Seeress mother Ivorwen, and her wise father Dirhael. She loved her brave nephew Barant, the son of her older brother Doldaer, whose death fighting orcs had inadvertently brought about her own birth. Barant was almost old enough to be Gilraen’s father. When her son Aragorn returned to the Dunedain, Barant became one of his mentors. 

Gilraen loved her people, the Dunedain. She loved her land, Eriador which had once been Arnor, with its wild forests and great rivers. For love of her child, she left Eriador to dwell in the too-perfect beauty of Imladris. 

Gilraen was her mother Ivorwen’s daughter. Ivorwen was a great Seer. But more importantly to her people, Ivorwen was a Lore-Keeper. She kept track in her head not only of the history of the Dunedain, but also of all the generations of the Dunedain, descended down from the first Chieftain of the Dunedain, Aranarth, and all of his people. When a man and woman of the Dunedain first considered courting, they had to consult Ivorwen or one of her fellow Lore-Keepers, to make sure that they were not too closely blood-related for the marriage to produce healthy children. 

Ivorwen was also a woman who could make the best out of anything given to her. The seeds to sow winter wheat went moldy after all the villagers were drenched in rain when orcs attacked them during their trek from the old village site to the new? Very well, this year Ivorwen decides that they will grow corn. Or that they will plant extra vegetables, and they will send an emissary to trade with the village down-river, which has a longer growing season for wheat and was safe from those orc raids due to flooding on the Bruinen. 

They have run out of potatoes because the only farmer who grew them moved to a new village in the spring? Very well, Ivorwen would say, then they will make the venison stew with extra carrots instead. Ivorwen could make a meal out of next to nothing, and a winter cloak out of scraps. Orcs could attack, and Ivorwen would lead the women and children to safety. After the danger had passed, she would take a head count and get the wounded seen to, and even make sure that a meal was eaten by all the survivors. And then she would assist her husband in getting everything set back to rights the next day. 

And Ivorwen did have the gift of prophecy. It was one of the only things that would ever be written down about her, besides that she was Aragorn’s grandmother. In Ivorwen that gift ran stronger than it had in many previous generations of the Dunedain. Ivorwen’s mother Mirien had been a direct female-line descendant of Mairenwen, born Almairen, the daughter of Sabela of Numenor, a great prophetess of that lost isle. 

Ivorwen was also descended from Sabela’s younger brother Imrazor, the first Prince of Dol Amroth, through Ivorwen’s father Gilbarad, a male-line descendant of Princess Celaireth of Arthedain, the younger daughter of Ardevui the last King of Arthedain and his wife Firiel, the daughter of both King Ondoher of Gondor and also the Swan Princess Gaerwen, the daughter of Prince Galven of Dol Amroth. 

Gilraen wasn’t a Seeress herself, but she had a hint of the gift. Certain things were given unto her to know. She knew that she would die young. She also knew that she could make a difference before she did, and that the choice of how to do so would be hers to make. She planned and trained to become a Lore-Keeper, like her mother. Until she left for Imladris, she was considered the most promising Lore-Keeper of her generation. She could make something out of nothing, and she later taught her son Aragorn how to do the same. It helped to keep him fed and warm throughout his wanderings all over Middle Earth, and it gave him hope when he confronted situations that seemed completely beyond his control. 

Gilraen was her father Dirhael’s daughter. Dirhael had been a great warrior amongst the Dunedain, until a knee crippled in combat with Easterling raiders had left him unable to campaign in the winter months. Then Dirhael’s wisdom and organizational skills enabled him to become the advisor and right-hand man of his people’s Chieftain, Arador, who was the father of Arathorn. When Arador was away with the Rangers, it was Dirhael who led the villages of the Dunedain of Arnor. 

Dirhael kept track of the locations of every village and every safe hiding place in Eriador. He helped to coordinate the efforts and strategic planning of Chieftain Arador, the Dunedain’s military leader, and Arador’s captains. He also helped to integrate into that strategic planning the information brought by Nestori Fardirion, the half-Dunadan, half-Easterling spymaster of the Dunedain. And he taught his daughter many of those skills, because he loved her and because she was the child of his old age and because her way of looking at the world so often amused him. 

Like her father, Gilraen was wise beyond her years. Sometimes, that wisdom led her to cynicism, and fatalism, but she kept that at bay long enough to plant the seeds of hope in the heart of her son. Like her father, Gilraen was a great organizer. When she first took sanctuary in Imladris with her two year old son, that elven haven of learning and knowledge had been without a castellan for over two centuries. 

“The last one fled in despair after Elladan and his fellow alchemists blew up the south wing for the third time in a single year,” kind Erestor had thoughtfully explained to Gilraen. 

“Yes, and I’m sorry for that, but I really would like to be able to have meals served to my son on time, and not whenever you or Lord Elrond or your sons surface from your studies or your military endeavors for air and sustenance,” Gilraen appealed composedly. 

“Oh! Of course!” exclaimed Erestor, placing his hand to his heart in the elven gesture of remorseful regret. “I hadn’t even thought of that, Gilraen muin nin. Had you, Elrond?” 

“No, I’m afraid not,” the great peredhel lord admitted, “In fact, I’m not sure when the last time we had set meal times here even was.” 

“Two hundred and thirty-four years ago,” supplied Erestor’s son Melpomaen, “Just before poor Castellan Girdis fled in horror.” 

“That poor dear elleth never did become accustomed to Glorfindel’s habit of leaving weaponry and mud all over the place,” Erestor reflected. 

“Yes, that’s another detail on my list,” Gilraen said pleasantly, “Yesterday Ara – Estel brought me a three foot pike with a very sharp spear on top of it. He’d found it in his playroom. He didn’t cut himself, fortunately, but . . .” 

Elrond sighed, and promised, “I’ll speak to Glorfindel.” 

“If you would, that would be very kind,” Gilraen said, still calm and easy in manner, “And, as you mentioned, the mud. What happened to your cleaning staff, Lord Elrond? Is there anyone except the very hard-working and admirable Mistress Idhril?” 

“I’m not certain,” began Elrond, looking to Erestor for guidance. 

“I’m not certain, either,” confessed the blushing Erestor. 

“Most of the cleaning staff fled, er, sailed, with our former Castellan Girdis,” Melpomaen explained, now hiding a smile which heartened Gilraen, “And then we lost Eilunwen when she married Orophin about a century ago. Most of the rest of the household staff went to Lothlorien either with Eilunwen, or with Arwen, a few decades later.” 

“Perhaps you would like to hire some additional staff, Gilraen muin?” Lord Elrond said, his tone torn between hope and resignation, “I could easily make the necessary funds available.” 

“I think that is an excellent idea, Uncle Elrond,” Gilraen agreed. 

“There are several villages under the protection of Imladris only a few days’ ride away,” Melpomaen offered, “We’ve often hired folk from there when we’ve needed seasonal assistance.” 

“We have?” asked Elrond, bemused. 

“Yes, Hir-nin,” said Melpomaen, studiedly patient, “Mistress Idhril and I have normally taken care of the details.” 

“I think that a pay raise for Mistress Idhril might be in order,” Erestor said, now smiling as well. 

“What about a pay raise for Melpomaen?” Gilraen asked, not wanting her unexpected ally to go unrewarded. 

“Melpomaen stopped accepting pay raises a few centuries ago,” Elrond said, with his own patient look for Melpomaen. 

“It was actually 1,500 years ago, gwador-nin,” Erestor informed Elrond. 

Elves, Gilraen quickly learned, had a different handle on time passing than mortal men. In part because of that, when Gilraen hired household staff from the villages, she made sure to choose widows with young children when she could, or whole entire families. Doing so gave her son human playmates and partners-in-mischief, and pleased the elves by making the gardens of Imladris once more ring with childish laughter. 

Like both her father and her mother, Gilraen had a phenomenal memory and a generous helping of both intelligence and common-sense, two traits which do not often pair well together. She was both a strategist and a logistician. She usually applied those skills on a domestic settlement-wide scale rather than in a military milieu, but the young Estel still learned from her how impossible tasks could be broken into smaller, doable ones. 

And Gilraen had some traits which were all her own, both native and honed. She was kind. She was athletic, although she had no real desire to be a warrior, not like one of her friends who trained with the mighty elven warrior Glorfindel, and became one of the few women to join the Northern Rangers. 

“I’m too fond of having all my teeth to want to become a warrior,” the child Gilraen had confessed to the young Chieftain’s heir Arathorn, and to his trainer and companion Glorfindel. Both man and elf had laughed, and Arathorn had teased Glorfindel that Glorfindel had never really risked his teeth, because as an elf he could just grow new ones if he lost them. 

“Yes, indeed, Arathorn my lad, but it takes the better part of a month, and it’s quite painful.” 

Arathron and Gilraen had both stared at the tall, golden-haired elf in fascinated horror. 

“Just how many new teeth have you had to grow in your lifetime, Captain Glorfindel?” child Gilraen had asked breathlessly. 

“Too many, my starry lass, entirely too many,” that worthy had confessed, before giving Gilraen a bag of candy, with the warning to make sure to clean her teeth carefully after eating the sweets, else she really might lose a tooth or two. 

Gilraen liked pretty things. Not brazenly pretty, although she came to admire the brilliant-hued silks and velvets she wore as her distant Uncle Elrond’s guest in Imladris. Gilraen liked best the subtler aspects of beauty. The pale violet-pink of a sunset, or pretty tumbled smooth pebbles from the river. Her brother Barant liked working with stones in his off-time, and he taught Gilraen to drill holes in her collection of pretty little river pebbles, so that she could smooth them and make them into a necklace. She made many and later sold most of them, for what passed for a pretty coin amongst the largely nomadic Dunedain. 

In her youth, Gilraen was self-confident to the point of reckless arrogance. She had to be, to choose to marry Arathorn. He fell in love with her and asked for her hand. Before Arathorn asked to court her, she had never wanted to marry. Many Lore-Keepers didn’t. Lore-Keepers kept track of not just history and bloodlines, but also which seasons were good for planting which crops, and where the best sites to build summer and winter villages were. They kept track of clean water sources and soil where healing herbs like King’s Foil would grow well. For many Lore-Keepers, it was too much to do all of that and become a wife and a mother. 

Gilraen felt the seasons of Eriador in her very blood. She loved the sweet green of spring, with its fragile, hopeful buds. She loved the delicious cool-tinged warmth of summer’s dawning, and the smell of honey-suckle and taste of blackberries as the warm season continued. She loved the colors of the fall, and the hurry of harvesting and preserving food for the long winter. She loved the tart taste of apples in the autumn, and the cider which would last through the cold months, if they planned it just right (and Ivorwen and then Gilraen most often did). She loved sitting at her elders’ feet and learning their stories by heart during the dark, cold days, and she learned so much before each beautiful new spring began. 

But Gilraen fell in love with Arathorn, too, with his smile and his courage and his wit. She was selfish enough to want to marry the man she loved, and brave and confident enough to take on his tragic destiny. She would not be turned away from her determination to marry Arathorn. Not even when her father, who had a bit of the prophetic gift himself, forbade the match, and warned her that Arathorn’s years would be few. 

It was Gilraen’s mother Ivorwen who spoke for her, and for Arathorn’s suit. It was Ivorwen who advised her husband, “If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.” 

It was not a very promising vision on which to begin a marriage, but Gilraen was confident enough to overlook that. What twenty-two year old woman is ready to be the mother of the future savior and hope of her people? Not a one, or not a one who should take on the task, at least! But Gilraen did not shy away from a challenge, even so great a challenge, even knowing that she might have to bear the burden of parenting such a child without her husband. 

Gilraen had a gift for recognizing when desperate, lightning-quick action was required. When Arathorn died, she cut off all ties with her people, save coded communications with her mother and father, and took Aragorn immediately to Imladris for safety. She left everything she had ever known and everything she loved, to give her son the chance to grow up. And she succeeded. 

She had to share Aragorn in Imladris. Elrond loved him, and so did his sons. Glorfindel and Erestor and Melpomaen also loved him. All of those great elves taught Aragorn, whom Elrond had given the use-name Estel, to fight and to think and to plan. Gilraen knew that Aragorn could never achieve his destiny without those skills, but she still worried that living in Imladris would make him more elf than man. 

And so she found him human playmates. And she also told him stories of mortal heroes, to balance the tales of elven heroes he absorbed as the adored mascot of the community of Imladris. She told him the stories of human heroes and heroines who had happy endings, such as Tuor, Beren, Haleth, and his ancestor Imrazor. It wasn’t until much later that Gilraen realized that almost all of her favorite human heroes had married elves, and she wondered then what effect that incidental fact might have had on her son’s developing mind. 

And she told her son stories of men and women who were brave and good but who despite those virtue did not succeed, such as his many-times cousin, Prince Earnur, who saved the Dunedain of Arnor from the Witch-King of Angbad but then later died in an unnecessary duel with the Witch-King. 

“Try not to fight battles which you could avoid, unless you must to prevent something even worse,” Gilraen advised her son 

“That doesn’t make sense, Nana.” 

“It will when you are older, Estel-nin.” 

And she told him the story of his many-times uncle, the brave and doomed Prince Faramir of Gondor, younger son of Ondoher, the last King of Gondor, who had ridden to war even after his father ordered him to hold Minas Tirith. 

“His father should have known what he would do,” nine year old Estel argued, “if he knew his son, he should have known. Or his brother should have known . Elrohir or Elladan would have known that, about me.” 

“Sometimes, Estel-nin, you cannot save people from their own courage and sense of honor.” 

“Do you think his father forgave him? For defying his order to stay safe?” Estel asked, in such a manner as to give Gilraen grave misgivings as to what her son might have been up to of late that Elrond and Gilraen might not have known of. 

But she told him a mother’s truth, “I am sure that Ondoher forgave his Faramir, my heart and hope, just as I would forgive you anything.” 

And she would, and did. She forgave him falling in love with Arwen, even more quickly than Elrond did. When Elrond set the high bride price of destroying the one ring and becoming King of Arnor and Gondor, it was Gilraen who convinced her son that it was Elrond’s way of daring Aragorn to do something that Elrond had complete faith in his beloved foster-son to do. Gilraen railed against Elrond in private, mostly to her human kin and friends, and a little to Melpomaen. 

Melpomaen became one of her confidants in Imladris, along with Siana the chief cook, who ruled the kitchens, and who had hailed with joy a proponent of set meal times in the person of Gilwen. But it was Melpomaen to whom Gilraen told more of her troubles, and that was partly Elladan Elrondion’s fault. Or because of Elladan. Sometimes, it was hard for Gilraen to tell the difference between the two circumstances. 

Gilraen had her first dizzy spell when she was in her early thirties. Odd mood swings and exhaustion followed it. Her son needed to focus on his training and his schooling, so she hid her weaknesses as much as she was able. Her lieutenants amongst the household staff picked up more of her duties. Elrond, to the extent that he even noticed Gilraen being less active than usual, thought it was a good thing that she was giving herself a rest now and again. 

It was Elladan who noticed that something was wrong, and Elladan who gave her the medicine which allowed her to feel mostly better again, most of the time. 

“If we tweak the formulas here and there, we might be able to get it to work better. And there are other things we could try,” the enthusiastic elven healer told the distracted, embarrassed Gilraen as she re-tied her dress. 

“No,” she told him, “No tests. No studies. What you already have, whatever I can take quietly without anyone noticing, is good enough.” 

“Gilraen, you need to be there for your son. And to do that, you need to take care of yourself.” 

“He needs to focus on everything he is learning, in order to become who we all need him to be. You know that as well as anyone.” 

“These medicines will kill you, eventually,” Elladan told her, his intelligent gray eyes stormy with worry, “It’s the best formula I’ve been able to produce for your condition, after well over a thousand years of trying, but still. Some of the ingredients are toxic. No one who has taken these concoctions has lived beyond the age of 100.” And 100 was young, amongst the Dunedain of lost Arnor. Gilraen’s parents both lived to be well over 160. 

“So be it,” said Gilraen, “Aragorn must go out into the world and assume his duties as Chieftain of the Dunedain when he is twenty. You and I both know that he will have to travel elsewhere not long afterward to learn to command an army, because the Northern Dunedain no longer field anything larger than a company. He may need to learn his enemy better, and to do that, he will need to travel even farther from home. He can’t do any of that with anything near his best concentration if he’s worried about a sick mother at home.” 

“Sweet Valar,” Elladan said, in a mixture of exasperation, horror, and awe, “How far ahead you plan! You are incredibly terrifying. What a man you would have made!” 

“I am content to be a mother,” Gilraen answered, “Especially if my son can live, and have a happy future.” 

“Elrohir is betting on him.” 

“Well, thank the Valar for that,” said Gilraen, because Elrohir rarely ever gambled and didn’t win most of the pot. 

But Elladan still made her tell at least Melpomaen of her occasional maladies. The two elves kept her secret, until well after her death. She asked them to tell Aragorn only if he lived long enough to have the happy future she hoped for him, because she knew she’d have to push Aragorn away before her end, so that he didn’t feel torn by a child’s duty to care for an ill parent. 

When Aragorn came to her after Elrond told him of his true name and his impossible destiny, it was Gilraen who held him, and dried the tears he could not cry in front of the foster-father and many-times Uncle he could not bear to disappoint. 

“I’m sorry for lying to you, my heart and hope,” Gilraen told him, “There is no excuse for it.” 

“You wanted me to be safe.” 

“And you deserved that, and honesty as well. That I couldn’t give you both doesn’t mean that I didn’t fail you, even if it wasn’t my fault.” Gilraen was determined to carry that burden, so that Aragorn didn’t have to. 

She went with her son when he returned to their people. She helped him with the transition, with learning the skills it had been difficult to teach him in Imladris. He learned quickly and well, this shining son of hers. The Dunedain quickly grew to love him, and he them, and he did not need her so much after that. 

And that was good, because Gilraen was fading. The brilliant mind which had once been able to keep track of more history and more bloodlines and more geography than any other young Lore-Keeper in Eriador had deteriorated greatly. And that wasn’t just because she had learned to love and rely on books while in Imladris, with its beautiful library. 

“It’s the sickness,” Elladan explained to her bluntly, “The medicine should keep you from entirely losing your wits, but no, you’ll never be as intelligent again.” 

One could always trust Elladan to tell the unvarnished truth. Well, if one asked. 

So Gilraen was not a Lore-Keeper. She could still cook, and plant, and hunt. She gathered herbs and distilled them and prepared medicines, some of which she sold to Elladan or other elves from Imaldris, as well as the Dunedain. She made her stone necklaces and bracelets. Melpomaen asked her for four, one for each of him and the twins and Aragorn. Then, to her surprise, Glorfindel asked for several hundred. 

“They make excellent last-ditch weapons,” he told her cheerfully, “Just break the string, and boom! There are beads on the floor that YOU know how not to trip over, but that your opponent doesn’t. Or you have something easy to throw to make your enemy think that you’re elsewhere. Or . . .” 

Gilraen didn’t have the energy to want to know. By then, she had only the interest for necessary things. So she thanked him for his business, and told him that she had to get about it. Once she would have been curious about everything he had to say, but that curiosity had gone, along with whatever had made her able to train to be a Lore-Keeper. 

Slowly, slowly, Elladan’s promise came true, and her body stopped working. She hid it as long as she could. Eriador didn’t demand too much of her, so it was easier, there, than it would have been in Imladris. Aragorn came to her one last time, near the end. He realized that she had aged, but not why. He told her to hang on, to have hope for the future. 

“My heart,” she told her son, “I have hope for your future, but not for mine. I gave you to our people, and you have given them hope. But I have no hope left for myself. I have led a good life, in which you have been my greatest joy. Now, go forth, and continue to have faith in yourself. I want to see you triumph, so that you can be happy. That is my last wish. Make it come true, if you can. But even if you can’t, please know that I will know that you tried, and that I will always love you. Always.” 

Gilraen’s name, roughly translated, meant ‘net of stars’ in Sindarin. It was given to her for a family heirloom that Ivorwen gave to twenty-year old Gilraen to wear on feast days, a hairnet of twinkling gems that looked like stars holding back Gilwen’s auburn hair. 

But, in truth, Gilwen was the net that birthed the star of hope, Gil-Estel, her Aragorn. She was the web which bound him to his people. She was the net which held him when he learned the full weight of his fate. She was the net from which he was launched forth, on his indirect but ultimately incandescent journey. From the darkness he helped to bring the light, and then he lived with his wife and his children in its warmth and glory. 

Any mother’s dearest wish is for her child’s success and happiness, not just her own. Gilraen made her own choices. She loved and was loved dearly in return. Yes, she knew tragedy, and when she died, there was little hope that her child would know glory and contentment. And yet, in the end, he did. Gilraen’s life wasn’t a true tragedy, despite its cruel disappointments, because Gilraen’s ultimate victory came in Aragorn’s happy ending. 

And Gilraen’s victory was in her granddaughter whom Aragorn later named for her and for his wife, fierce little Gilwen, who fought pirates and led armies and loved a man named Dirhael Ethironchil, and who was loved by him in return. Gilwen, who would become the second Princess of Eryn Vorn, and the mother of Hebriel, the first woman to rule a princedom of Middle Earth in her own right. 

And Gilraen’s victory was also in Aragorn’s loving his natural son Faramir, and forgiving Faramir every time he defied his father’s will for what he saw as the greater good. Because Gilraen had taught Aragorn that a parent forgives, every time. 

And when Gilraen and Finduilas, the mother of Aragorn’s first-born son, met in the Halls of Mandos, they embraced one another as sisters in both pain and hope. They wept for their betrayals of Aragorn, whom they both loved. They wept for having died before their children faced their greatest struggles, and they wept in worry before their children won their battles. Then they laughed and rejoiced together, because their children and grandchildren lived and grew up and knew happiness and peace that they had never known. And sometimes, they wept again, because they had never gotten to share in that peace and joy. But they were both mothers, mothers who had sacrificed everything so that their children and grandchildren could have a brighter future. 

And because their children brought that brighter future into being and enjoyed it, they won. Men could call their stories tragic, and could reduce their lives to a single sad line in the history books, but Gilraen and Finduilas knew that they were amongst the most fortunate women in the Halls of Mandos. No matter what was written of them later by men on Middle Earth, they always had the last laugh, because their children had lived and thrived. And what mother didn’t have that as her dearest wish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: Mairenwen, born Almairen, the daughter of Sabela of Numenor (Imrazor of Dol Amroth’s sister) appears in “Careful, but Also Lucky,” chapter two of the Tales of Numenor’s Last Gleaming, which can be found at AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/225942/chapters/345692
> 
> Imrazor himself appears in all chapters of that story, as well as in at least a few others.


End file.
